


A Different Path Chosen

by Fight_The_Heteronormatives



Series: A Different Path Chosen [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Author Is Sleep Deprived, Canon compliant up till Season 5, Dean Winchester is Not Heterosexual, Destiel - Freeform, Everyone Is Gay, How Season 6 should've gone, I'm Sorry, M/M, More tags to be added, Parental Bobby Singer, Sabriel - Freeform, Sam Lives!AU, Supernatural AU - Freeform, Swearing, Temporary Death, midam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-01-09 00:04:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 44,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12264810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fight_The_Heteronormatives/pseuds/Fight_The_Heteronormatives
Summary: At the end of the Apocalypse, Sam Winchester miraculously survives. He and Dean have their relationship back on track, and they're enjoying a small piece of the quiet life. But of course, it couldn't last.Raphael is planning on restarting the Apocalypse, believing it to be God's will, and Team Free Will has to step back in the game in order to make sure that doesn't happen; but they're gonna need a lot of help.With Crowley meddling, Tricksters eloping to parallel dimensions, and angels having to face the concept of free will for the first time ever, excitement is only to be expected.





	1. What A Catch!

In the end, Sam thought, things had gone much better than they could’ve.

The apocalypse had been a disaster. A catastrophe. A calamity. It had quite literally been one long sprint through hell. But here they were, safe on the other side.

Sam had been ready to close his eyes, block his nose, and take the plunge for humanity. It had been him that started the whole mess in the first place; he ought to be the one who fixed it. But Dean – loyal, reckless, _borderline-suicidal_ Dean – had reached out and snagged the back of Sam’s jacket as he fell. But Adam – Michael – _whoever,_ hadn’t been quite so lucky. _He’d_ fallen in.

Sam was about to do the same; he was going to tell Dean to let go, because if he just hauled his brother back to the surface, what would they’ve accomplished?

As it turns out, it didn’t matter all that much. The Cage would have its own back, one way or the other. Sam could still pinpoint the exact moment he’d completely regained control of his body. White, blinding light poured out of him, and was sucked into the abyss below them.

Dean tried to drag a freed Sam out of the Pit, he really did, but he was just too weak. His grip on the back of Sam’s jacket slowly started slipping. Sam thought that was it; despite Dean’s best efforts, Sam was going to be lost to the Cage; and its current occupant’s wrath.

It was no less than he deserved, after all.

Then another, stronger, hand seized Sam, and flung him back into the open air. Three large bodies toppled over each-other, flailed, then landed messily by the side of the Pit. As they watched, stunned, the hole closed; like a giant gash being pulled shut by an invisible needle and thread. After maybe a minute, there was nothing to suggest what had just happened other than the three men still lying in a crumpled heap on the ground, in a random cemetery in Kansas.  

Sam stared at Dean. Dean stared at Cas. Cas stared at the sky, on his back, looking just as shocked and confused as they all felt. It was Dean who, at long last, broke the silence.

“Did we just…”

Sam looked at Cas for answers. Cas finally broke his gaze away from the sky, and studied the two brothers. Just when Sam thought he wasn’t going to say anything, he started to laugh.

Not the amused, if slightly confused grunts they’d heard from him before, but honest, gut-wrenching hysterics.

The laughter spread as if it were contagious. Despite the demon-blood hangover he could feel coming on, and the fact that his entire body felt like a dried-out husk, Sam laughed till his abdomen went into cramp. Dean wasn’t too far behind, even though he must’ve had at least a few broken and cracked ribs from earlier.

After that… well, what was there to do? Castiel healed Bobby, and made sure he knew they were all as fine as could be expected. Cas then healed them both, despite his own weakness; and when asked, he couldn’t tell them how or why he’d been resurrected. It had simply… happened.

He’d also shipped out pretty quickly. He had to check on Heaven; assuming he wouldn’t be executed for treason the moment he stepped foot inside the Pearly Gates. He needed to find out how many of his brethren still lived, a mission that neither Dean nor Sam could oppose.

Sam and Dean decided to take a similar approach. Using Bobby as a go-between, they checked out every hunter they knew of, and passed the word around. ‘The apocalypse is over’.  

The next month was just as busy as the previous one had been. The world’s emergency forces needed lying to, the conspiracy theorists needed putting down, and the planet needed rebuilding. However, come the end of the month, Dean decided enough was enough.

“Dude, we just saved the world. Would it really kill us to take a vacation?”

And so, they did. They used all the money they’d saved up, stolen, or hassled – a good ten thousand dollars – and found a nice little cabin in the woods of Minnesota where they could ‘lay low’ for a while.

For the first three days, they did nothing. Absolutely nothing. They lay on lounging chairs, they sipped fruity alcoholic drinks with little umbrellas in them, and they even managed to have a heart-to-heart about everything that had happened.

Which is where Sam found himself now. One week into their vacation, he sat outside the two-room cabin on one of the lounging chairs, sipping a coffee, with sunglasses on in preparation for a hot day that hadn’t even begun yet. The sun was just rising above the horizon, painting the few clouds in the sky a soft, cotton-candy pink.

The water of the lake that stretched out to his left was steely, and the birds chirped happily from the pine trees on his right. The smell of pine and gas fumes from the nearby road permeated the air; and Sam breathed it in greedily. God, it was good to be alive.

He took the time, as he did every morning, to just breathe deeply and remember. Remember those who they’d lost, and those who they’d saved. Most of the world fell into the last category, but there were names in the first he swore to himself he’d never forget.

Mom. Dad. Jess. Jo. Ellen. Ash. Even Gabriel earned himself a spot in Sam’s daily angst-session.

This also happened to be where Dean found him when he finally crawled out of bed. The novelty of being able to sit here and bitch at Dean each morning wasn’t lost on him; if not for his older brother’s loyalty, God knew the shape he’d be in right now.

“Saved you a banana sundae,” he said by way of greeting, and Dean immediately perked up. Even in his fragile, pre-coffee state, dean could still be trusted to respond to words like ‘food’, ‘gun’, and ‘boobs’.   

Dean was, at heart, not a very complicated man.

He sat down on the chair next to Sam’s with a bone-deep sigh, and happily started eating his ice-cream breakfast.

“So, what are you doing up so early?” He asked around a mouthful of sundae.

“Oh, the usual,” Sam responded, taking another sip from his coffee.

“Uh-huh,” Was Dean’s articulate response.

For a long moment, they just sat there, enjoying the feeling of not being hunted. The sun had just touched the tips of the tall palm trees when Dean put his empty bowl down and turned Sam, face serious.

“I’m worried about Cas.”

Sam frowned. After he’d healed them, Cas had disappeared, and they hadn’t heard a peep from him since. He’d started to think something bad had happened; or that, maybe, Cas was just enjoying his new-found freedom. Maybe he didn’t even know something was up; angels were immortal, after all, and probably had a skewed sense of time compared to humans.  

“What, you think something bad’s happened?” He asked, turning to his brother.

“I don’t know,” Dean said, “I just have this feeling. Like, why hasn’t he visited? Where is he? We all kinda just assumed he’d be welcomed back in Heaven, but a lot of the angels were pretty gung-ho about judgement day. For all we know, they killed him a month-and-a-week ago, and just haven’t spread the word around.”

Sam took a moment to digest that, brow furrowed. Dean had a good point.

“Well, why don’t you just call?” he asked, “Cas has always come when you’ve called him.”

“That’s the thing, man,” Dean responded, “I have called. This whole past week, I’ve done nothing but call. He’s not answering.”

That got Sam to sit up straight.

“So, what do we do?” Sam asked, “How do we get a hold of him?”

Dean sat up as well. There was a bit of melted ice-cream smudged on his chin, which was at odds with how serious he looked.

“I could call Bobby,” he said, “I mean, the man’s gotta know something.”

Sam nodded, then sighed. It looked like their vacation was over.

“Alright,” he said, “But look man, after this, if it turns out to be nothing bad, you’ve gotta swear we can visit the Natural History Museum in DC. You know I’ve wanted to go there forever.”

That got Dean to smile, so Sam counted it as a personal victory.

And even if something was wrong with Cas, they’d all just finished stopping the apocalypse. How bad could it be?

…

Bad. It was very bad.

It took them less than a day to get everything ready. There was a town not two miles away from where they were staying, and Bobby had mercifully kept a summoning spell handy. Any ingredients they didn’t already have – dried myrtle, mountain ash, camellia petals, beeswax candles, and a dutiful priestess’s ‘extra’ rib – were easy enough to get a hold of.

They cleared out the main floor of their cabin, making sure it was empty enough to make room for an angel; they made sure all the blinds were closed, so that no peeping toms happened across a successful satanic ritual; and made sure they had their angel blades ready in case things got hairy.

Dean had finished drawing the summoning sigils onto the floor by the time Sam got back from the florists at around sunset.

“Dude, you won’t believe how hard I had to work to get proper camellias. It was li-,” he paused in the doorway, staring at his carefully spray-painting brother, “Uh, Dean? What am I looking at?”

Dean glanced up from his work only briefly.

“The art store was out of stock. As it is, I got the last can, and the second-to-last ruler. Let’s just hope Cas doesn’t mind us summoning him with hot-pink sigils.”

Sam took a moment to remind himself that the two of them, one mail-order angel, and an ornery, old, junkyard-owner had legitimately saved the world. If that wasn’t proof enough that miracles existed, then Sam was honestly lost.

The sky outside was dark with thick, grey clouds. There was only a slip of horizon visible over the treetops, and the setting sun seemed to set the slip of visible sky ablaze with harsh reds and oranges. A strong, surprisingly chilly wind blew the pine trees to-and-fro. The air smelt of ozone, pine, and something burning far away.

As Sam watched through the open doorway, the glaring setting sun was swallowed by the maelstrom of clouds above them.

“What do you think?” Dean asked, following Sam’s gaze, “Some kind of typhoon, or hurricane?”

“No,” Sam said, “No alarms have been sounded, and in any case, those come over from the sea. This is from inland.”

Dean frowned. Hoping the weather wasn’t an omen of any kind, he left Sam to his brooding, and finished preparing the ritual.

Sam shivered in the wind, lazily watching small leaves, food wrappers, and pieces of paper get blown out to the lake. Somewhere in the distance, thunder boomed. Unnerved, Sam backed into the cabin, closed and locked the door, then turned to see if Dean needed any help.

A large ring, not unlike your ordinary devil’s trap, was painted onto the floor. It was filled with a myriad of summoning symbols, most in Enochian, and was ringed by seven beeswax candles.

The candles were supposed to represent a ring of holy fire, which could cage an angel for a time. A real line of holy oil had been carefully smeared around the circle; just in case.

A blessed pewter bowl sat at the base of the ring, where an eighth candle would’ve stood.  In it, Dean had already crushed up the ingredients and set a stick of dried-myrtle incense in the middle.

Mountain ash had been sprinkled over the outside of the circle, and around where Sam would sit. This was to ward off impurities and evil. Camellia petals were covering the base of the bowl; they were the flowers of devotion, and they were supposed to remind the angel that they were devoted to mankind; whether they wanted to be or not.

The priestess’s rib; that had also been crushed and set in the bowl. That was a symbol of creation, for obvious reasons. Eve was made from Adam’s rib; similarly, the angel would be pulled into physical form before them using it.

Sam stepped forward, pulling an A5 notepad and small, black pen from his breast pocket. It stood out in the room full of ancient things, but it was arguably the most important part of the ritual. Scribbled onto the first page was the spell Sam would have to chant to summon Cas. It was written down both literally and phonetically, so there could be no excuse for getting it wrong.     

Sharing a nod with Dean, Sam moved forward and sat before the bowl. Using a match, he lit all the candles, barely managing to reach the farthest one, but he managed. Then he lit the incense, and set the notepad on his lap as a cheat-sheet. Once certain that all was right, Sam began to chant. 

It was only a few, barely-pronounceable lines, but Sam made sure he said it all slowly and clearly, repeating it twice over, for luck. Thunder sounded again, this time closer, and Dean glanced at the roof warily.

Sam looked around. The wind outside was blowing harder, shaking the trees vigorously. Through the blinds, he could see a shaft of lightning strike the ground, temporarily lighting up the world. Only a second later, thunder practically shook the cabin.

The incense was already more than half gone, and Cas hadn’t appeared yet. Sam was certain they’d followed Bobby’s directions to the letter; so, what was going wrong?

It was bad decorum, and bad luck, to interrupt a ritual, but neither of those things had stopped Dean before.

“Uh, Sammy? You sure you got the spell right?”

Barely withholding an eye-roll, Sam answered, “Yes, Dean, I’m sure. Now shush.”

Dean muttered something sarcastically under his breath, but Sam chose to ignore him.

Turning his attention back to the ritual, Sam tentatively reached for the pool of power that _had_ existed in the back of his mind. He hadn’t even sought out his gift since the end of the apocalypse – he’d been too scared – but now, he reached for it. It was pitifully small, barely anything, but it was there. Grasping it firmly, he tried to focus his power solely on the spell.

_‘Come on, Cas. Where the hell are you?’_

Thunder cracked right outside their window, with all the force of a jet engine, but Sam didn’t flinch. The windows shattered, spraying fine pieces of glass everywhere. The wind roared into the small cabin, pinning Dean to the far wall. The ingredients in the bowl blew away, swirling in what could almost have been an indoor dust-devil.

Sam’s hair blew in every direction, but his face and body remained perfectly still. The small pool of energy he had was starting to throb, like a second heartbeat, and his nose had started to bleed.

“Sam?! Sammy!” Dean yelled, but the sound never reached his brother’s ears. The wind was too loud, despite the fact that his brother sat not feet away.

Sam’s nosebleed picked up the pace. The candles went from a flickering orange to foot-tall purple licks of flame. It was like the wind was feeding it, rather than killing it.

Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the storm was gone.

The air stilled; the candles went out; the lightning and thunder vanished; and finally, the incense burnt away.

Sam and Dean were left in darkness eased only by the far-off lightning-strikes outside. Sam swayed for a moment, before toppling to the right. Dean shot forward like a bullet, and caught Sam just before his head hit the ground.

“Sam? Sammy? Come on, talk to me…”

Sam groaned, and tried to roll onto his back. Dean helped him, setting his body down gently. He was feverish, his face flushed and sweaty, his body practically on fire. Blood from his nose trailed into his mouth, staining his teeth. The sweat on his body made his hair stick to his face, and his lips moved as it he was speaking, but no sound came out.

A loud _‘tha-thump!_ ’ came from the roof, and Dean paused. _What now?_ he thought, looking up. He could see nothing different; but then again, he hadn’t expected to.

“A’right, Sammy,” he said softly, “I’m just gonna check something out. Stay here, and…”

Glancing at Sam’s uncomprehending face, he sighed.

“Just don’t die.”

Dean grabbed his nine-millimeter, Ruby’s knife, a flashlight, and an angel blade, before trekking outside. The sky was still heavy with clouds, and a light drizzle wet Dean’s skin and clothes. Looking up, he could see nothing on the roof. Frowning to himself, he started working his way around the cabin, looking for what had caused the noise.

He found it lying splayed behind the back of their vacation home. Bare-chested, bloody, and bruised, Cas was passed out on top of a small pile of firewood they kept handy for emergencies. His chest was covered in a plethora of cuts, all thin and precise. His face was barely recognizable, and it looked as if both of his legs were broken.

For a second, Dean was too stunned to move. Then, his brotherly instincts kicked in, and he rushed forward.      

 _“Son of a bitch!_ Cas?!” he asked frantically, kneeling next to the angel. He put the butt of his flashlight in his mouth, and checked Cas’s pulse. It was weak, but there.

He decided to risk agitating Cas’s injuries to carry him inside. It was better he was in there, getting looked after, than out here, catching his death. Moving as slowly and gently as he could, he lifted Cas into his arms and carried him back inside. (Some out there would call this a ‘bridal carry’. Dean called it ‘Not hauling around the guy who died for him _twice_ like a sack of potatoes’).

Sam was still prone on the floor, but he looked a little more coherent. He reacted when Dean slammed the door behind him with his foot, but only to glower. A few droplets of blood had successfully stained his T-shirt.

Dean paused to flick the light on with the flashlight still in his mouth, then rushed to where he’d hastily shoved the couch aside earlier, and softly set Cas down on it. While tucking a pillow under the angel’s head, he realized Cas was mouthing something almost too faint for Dean to hear.

Leaning in to listen, he managed to catch a few words:

“…Wards…Ra…Find…” The meaning was lost on Dean, but in the area of ‘wards’ he couldn’t agree more. Now that he could see Cas’s wounds clearly, he recognized them. They were slashes from an angel blade.

“Dean?” Sam’s soft, pained voice came from the floor, “What happened?”

Dean left Cas long enough to get Sam a tissue, a glass of water, and some Tylenol.

“Buck up, Sammy,” Dean said, voice sounding ten years older than he was, “We’re back in business.”


	2. Where Did the Party Go?

To say Bobby was surprised when Dean showed up at his door was an understatement.

The last he’d heard, his boys had taken a well-deserved holiday. He hadn’t expected to hear from them for at least another week, when they finally got so bored, they were willing to _beg_ for a case.

He most definitely did _not_ expected Dean to come careening into his junkyard at three a.m., bringing with him a mildly-hemorrhaging Sam and a nearly-dead Castiel.

He barely had time to rub the grit out of his eyes and throw on a jacket before his eldest practically kicked his door down.

“Hey, Bobby!” Dean yelled as he carried Cas into the room, setting him down on the couch, “Get the first-aid kit! And the whiskey!”

“I’m comin’, I’m comin’,” he said through a stifled yawn. One look at Cas, however, was enough to wake him up; his eyes nearly bugged right out of their sockets.  

“What happened?” Bobby demanded as he fished the first-aid kit out of one of the kitchen cupboards.

“Long story,” Dean answered as he finished hauling his little brother inside, setting him on a chair. Sam’s head lolled back dazedly, showing off the dried blood on his face; but he was responding to the world around him again, and could answer questions with single-syllable words, so he was not Dean’s primary concern at the moment.

Dean ran back to Cas’s side the moment Sam was settled, as if paranoid that Cas would die the moment he turned his attention elsewhere.

“Move, ya idgit,” Bobby grumbled, kneeling beside the angel with his first-aid kit, “Go grab us some whiskey, would ya?”

Dean obeyed without complaint – a definite sign that his mind was distracted with his friend’s health – and was back in a second with one of Bobby’s cheaper brands.

Bobby took his time analyzing Cas’s condition, making sure he missed nothing. The lacerations on his torso were definitely the biggest problem, though his legs – those needed quick treatment too. He’d already lost lots of blood; Bobby didn’t know how much was safe for an angel to lose, but if his disorientation and weakness were anything to go by, Cas had lost far too much.

“He needs a transfusion,” Bobby said, startling Dean from where he’d been trying to get Sam to drink from a glass of water.

“What?”

“He’s lost too much blood,” Bobby elaborated, “He needs more.”

“Use mine,” Dean offered, “If it’ll help.”

Bobby rolled his eyes; if the kid could set aside his self-sacrificing streak for half a moment, he’d realize _why_ that wouldn’t work.

“You can’t. We don’t know Cas’s blood type. You and Sam are both A-positive. Only O-negative is universal,” he paused to gesture towards the needle and tube tucked into the side of the kit, “Fortunately, yours truly has the lucky blood. But you’ll need to do it; and take care of those two after, ‘cause I might not be able to.”

Dean nodded, understanding. With professional, steady hands, he readied the equipment; two hollow needles connected by a long, thin, clear tube. Bobby snatched a cotton ball and wet it with whiskey before rubbing it into the crook of his right elbow. He then did the same for Cas’s left elbow, the one closest to them.

Bobby barely even felt the prick of the needle as Dean slipped it into his skin. Almost immediately, blood flowed into the tube. Dean waited till blood started to drip from the other needle before slipping it into Cas’s arm. For a few minutes, nothing happened. Then again, what were they expecting? A miraculous jump-scare?

Dean moved on to cleaning Cas’s wounds, preparing another, normal needle and surgical thread for stitching. Bobby simply sat still, curling his fingers into a fist and then loosening them again to keep the blood flowing. Finally, spots started to dance in front of his vision, and he knew he’d given all he could.

Looking at Cas now, he noticed a drastic improvement. He was asleep, and his cheeks were flushed with fresh blood. His wounds had started to bleed again, but Dean’s stitching would fix that in a moment. Due to how thin angel blades were, only about eight of the wounds required real stitches.

Bobby prepped a cotton ball, and set it over the needle before carefully pulling the instrument free. As soon as he managed to tape the cotton to his skin one-handed, an artform long since perfected, he moved on to Cas and did the same for him.

He looked around for anything else to do. Sam was unconscious in his chair, head hanging at a weird angle, snoring peacefully. Dean was intensely focused on Cas’s chest, gently coaxing the skin together. The impala’s headlights shone through the front-facing window; the doors were still open, and the engine was still running. Dean hadn’t even noticed yet.

Standing slowly, he rose to his feet and went to lock up the car before it’s battery went dead. Outside, the sky was starting to lighten. It was too early for any other sane person to be awake, but too late for Bobby himself to go back to bed. Wasn’t that just typical?

When he came back inside, he felt a bit better; his head had stopped swimming, and his knees felt a little stronger. Sam hadn’t moved, but Dean had finished his sewing, and was now applying butterfly-stitches to the less serious cuts.

He poured himself a fresh cup of coffee, and one for Dean as well. It was going to be a busy day.

…

It was seven a.m. before either of the sleeping beauties had managed to grumble their way back to consciousness.

In that time, Bobby managed to set both of Cas’s legs, take a shower, eat some breakfast, and hear Dean’s entire story; everything from the Minnesota cabin, and their semi-successful summoning ritual, to Cas’s sort-of warning.

“…He only managed to get out the words ‘wards’ and ‘find’ before going under, but it was enough to freak me out. Your warding is the best I know of; but I left my phone on the dresser table before we left, so I wasn’t able to call ahead.”

Bobby’s only response was a grunt, but the wheels in his head were turning. The only weapon Bobby knew of that could cause the kind wounds Cas had were an angel blade; and even though there were one or two drifting around the monster underworld, for some reason, this didn’t feel like the work of a demon or a monster.

If it were a demon – Crowley, most likely – then Cas would never have wiggled free; not even with a specific summoning. And no monster would’ve been able to successfully cage Cas in the first place.

No, Bobby’s money was on other angels.

“It’s not surprising, I guess,” Bobby muttered, “I mean, he did kinda lock Michael down in the pit, along with the devil. And Adam.”

Dean flinched at his youngest brother’s name. The reminder of what Adam Milligan must be going through was not a kind one.

“Yeah, but Cas was also resurrected. _Twice._ And we only know of one person who could manage that…”

A groan from the chair in the corner cut off their conversation. Sam scrunched up his face, then blinked his bleary eyes open. Dean plucked a glass of water and a bottle of Tylenol off the table, and dropped the latter into his brother’s lap.

“Welcome back, Sammy,” he said with a smile. Sam responded with a pained groan.

“What happened?” he asked, plopping the tablets into his mouth, “Did it work?”

“See for yourself,” Bobby said. Sam drained his meds with a swig of water offered by Dean, before turning to look around. When his eyes got to the couch, where Cas was still lying, they went wide.

“What the hell happened to him?!” Sam asked, horrified.

“No idea,” Dean replied, taking a sip from his mug of coffee, “But our money is on his brothers and sisters upstairs. It figures some of them would be pissed at him for helping us screw up their D-Day.”

Sam put his head in his hands.

“Well,” he asked the room in general, “What now?”

“It’s a good question,” Bobby said. Sam looked up as if noticing him for the first time. His head seemed to have cleared enough to realize they were no longer in Minnesota. 

“Obviously,” Dean said, “First order of business is to find who did this to Cas, and _kick their ass._ Second, we still have to get back in the game. Bobby, how’s…”

Dean didn’t finish, but he didn’t need to. Bobby’s face darkened; all around his home, books were scattered, opened to random pages. Everything from college textbooks to millennia-old scrolls. Theology, the afterlife, demonic forces, demon deals, and legal contracts had slowly consumed his waking hours.

“Shitty,” the old drunk responded at last, “Real shitty.”

Dean cleared his throat awkwardly, and glanced at Sam. Sam looked just as perturbed.

A long moan from the couch brought everyone back to the present. Dean shot forward, kneeling at Cas’s side. The angel stirred, his peaceful sleepiness giving way to pained confusion. He tried to sit up, but couldn’t manage it.   

“Hey, buddy,” Dean asked, gently helping Cas to a more seated position.

“Dean?” Cas asked, his voice more gravely than usual.

“Yeah, man,” Dean answered shakily, “You, uh, gave us quite the scare.”

Cas furrowed his brow, as if Dean’s sentence didn’t compute. His eyes were still bloodshot and half-lidded, and Bobby worried about how awake Cas really was.

“What,” Cas paused for moment, trying to gather his thoughts, “What are you doing in Heaven?”

Dean blanched, then sent Sam a look.

“Cas,” he spoke slowly, as if talking to a child, “We’re all in Bobby’s scrapyard. None of us are in Heaven.”

“Oh,” Cas said. His eyes were starting to slip closed again. “That’s nice.”

“ _‘Nice?’_ ” Dean asked. He seemed to realize that Cas was still somewhat delirious from blood loss. Suddenly, Cas’s eyes shot open.

“Wards,” he said, “Bobby, are those angel wards still on your house?”

“Yeah. Why?” Bobby asked.

“Because they’re going to come looking for me. The angels.”

“Why?” Sam asked, “Cas, what’s going on?”

“It’s Raphael,” Cas said, “He’s going to try restart the Apocalypse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Guys! Second chapter up and running! Enjoy!


	3. Thanks for the Memories

Sam sat in his chair in a state of shock. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think; he felt numb to the world around him. Cas’s words replayed in his head on a loop: _Restart the apocalypse. Restart the apocalypse. Restart…_

Unbidden, the memories came flooding back; Jess, pinned to the ceiling, flames licking her body raw; Ash, burned to a crisp in the ruins of the Roadhouse; Jo, ripped into ribbons, and sacrificing it all, so that Dean could take a shot that didn’t even work. God, how old had she been at the time? Nineteen? _Maybe_ twenty?

He remembered the look on Ellen’s face when she realized her daughter would not be getting better. He remembered the look in Ruby’s eyes when she knew she’d won. He remembered the feeling of demon blood running through his veins, heightening his senses, making him stronger.

All of a sudden, Sam couldn’t breathe.

 _“Balls,”_ Bobby muttered, then drowned his entire mug of coffee in one go. Before he could take a swig from the bottle of whiskey sitting on his desk, he noticed Sam’s predicament. He walked over and wacked Sam on the back a few times, forcing him to cough.

“Come on, kid,” Bobby muttered, not unkindly, before handing Sam his bottle of whiskey, “Drink it. It’s _medicine._ ”

Sam gladly took the bottle and chugged a few mouthfuls of it. Getting so smashed he forgot his own name sounded like an _excellent_ idea right now.

Dean was frozen next to Cas. His face went pale enough to see every single one of his freckles. Then, like a thermometer rising to dangerous levels, his face slowly turned red with rage. He started sputtering incoherently, looking like he was trying to cuss out Cas’s brother, but just couldn’t find words bad enough.

“That…that…” he cried, “But that is BULLSHIT!”

“That’s what I said,” Cas replied flatly.

Once Sam had chugged about half the bottle, he got up and gave it to Dean. Dean took it thoughtlessly, and Sam went to go find something heavier than the cheap whiskey to drown himself in.

Dean had gone from incoherent, shocked stuttering, to full-on bull-in-a-slaughterhouse _raging._ Only Bobby’s presence kept him from wrecking the room.

Sam paused to fill Bobby’s mug with some Johnny Walker, before chugging another few mouthfuls himself. He removed the now nearly-empty bottle from Dean’s iron grip, and put the new bottle in it.

Dean seemed to finally acknowledge Sam’s reaction to the news.

“Uh, Sammy,” he asked carefully, “You hanging in there?”

Sam gave Dean his very best bitchface, which was harder than he thought it would be, given how his vision was swimming. He then escorted himself to the chair he’d just been in, and passed out. The land of dreams was currently preferable to the real world, please and thank you.

Dean took several, _very_ deep breaths. Upon noticing that Dean had somewhat chilled, Bobby took the incentive to send him away.

“You need rest. We all do. We’ll pick this up fresh this evening.”

Dean grumbled all the way to his room about how one was supposed to rest after _that_ bombshell, but with a few more mouthfuls of Good ol’ Johnny, he was drunk enough to collapse once he laid eyes on a bed.

Making his way back to the living room, he gave Cas a blanket and told him to yell if he needed anything. He wouldn’t hear of solutions now. They could discuss it later, when the shock had worn off.

With that, Bobby finished off both bottles, then escorted himself to bed; but not before checking the warding around his house. It wouldn’t do to be careless, now.

…

That dinner was a frosty affair. Cas’s wounds needed re-cleaning, and explanations needed telling.

Steeling himself with a sip of coffee, Bobby took the lead.

“You’re sure?” He asked Cas, “About Raphael? You’re certain he’s planning on popping the lid on the Cage?”

“I would not say something like that unless I was sure,” Cas answered, voice still raw.

Dean plucked the first-aid kit from the dining room table, where it had been left the night before. He moved to sit next to Cas, nudging him aside so that he could reach the angel’s chest.

“What about your resurrection?” Sam asked, clinging to his own mug of coffee like a lifeline, “Didn’t that give you any say?”

Cas sighed.

“I still don’t know how, or why, I was brought back. My first thought was God, but that didn’t make sense. Why would he do that for one ordinary angel? But to answer your question, yes; some wanted to hear my say. Raphael, however, is far scarier than I am. When push came to shove, they took his side.”

Dean looked like he wanted to say something along the lines of _‘ordinary my ass’,_ or perhaps, ‘ _Those sons of bitches!_ ’, but simply busied himself with unwrapping Cas’s chest.

“And in any case,” Cas continued, “ _He_ made it clear where _He_ stood on the matter of _interfering._ ”

Cas’s bitterness was almost tangible, and Sam couldn’t blame him.

“So,” Bobby asked, “Who’s big and bad enough to keep Raph from jump-starting Judgement Day, _again?_ ”

Cas let out a bone-deep sigh, and thought carefully for a moment.

“God. Death.” He paused, before adding, “Another archangel, maybe. But no-one else.”

“Well, there’s a start,” Bobby said, “There are, what, seven of them?”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed, “But we’re three down, for the moment. Gabriel is dead, and Michael and Lucifer are chained up. So, who’re the other three?”

“Samael, Raziel, and Cassiel,” Cas answered, “Unfortunately for us, Cassiel disappeared just after Gabriel first did, and Samael hasn’t been seen in, oh, three-and-a-half centuries now.”

“And Raziel?” Dean asked, as he gently swabbed a whiskey-soaked ball of cotton wool down Cas’s front, “What about him?”

Cas grimaced at the pain, but made no noise. He hesitated, before saying:

“He’s in jail.”

Dean raised an eyebrow.

“Why?”

Cas paused again, almost looking a bit awkward. “Nephilim.”

“Oh,” Dean said, letting a smirk cross his face, “So he got a bit too frisky with the humans, huh?”

Sam could feel a migraine coming on. 

“Back on track, guys,” he reminded them, “Could Raziel take Raphael down?”

“Yes,” Cas said, “But he is untouchable. His minor rebellion was not long after…” Cas sighed, “Michael did not have it in him to throw Raziel into Hell. So, he’s chained up in the most secure part of Heaven. We wouldn’t be able to get anywhere near him.”

“That might not be entirely true,” Sam said, gears in his head spinning, “Ash might be able to get us there.”

“Ash?” Dean asked, “Yeah, that might work.”

“No, it won’t,” Cas interrupted, “Your friend makes his way through Heaven using doorways, the same way you and Sam were able to move around using a road of some kind. But there are no doors or roads where Raziel is. There is no way in, and no way out.”

“So,” Bobby sighed, “We’re back to square one. Any more bright ideas?”

“What about Samael?” Sam asked, “You said he’s been gone only three-and-a-half centuries. That’s a better lead than any other.”

“Also not,” Cas said, “Samael fell, much the same way Anna did. He cut out his grace, and let it land somewhere else. He was then reborn a human. For all we know, he’s one of the trillions of souls in Heaven right now.”

Sam groaned, and went to refill his cup of coffee.

“Well,” Bobby asked, “Do you at least have a name? The name he had as a human? That way, we could summon his ghost, see if he knew more?”

“No,” Cas said, “I’m sorry.”

“Well, that’s just perfect,” Dean grumbled, beginning to re-wrap Cas’s bandages, “So, is there anything we can still do?”

Cas was worryingly silent for a moment, before saying, “Warn your friends. Make sure they’re more prepared than last time.”

“That’s it?” Dean asked, astounded, “We just hunker down and wait for the end?”

“Not necessarily,” Cas said, “Raphael hasn’t restarted the Apocalypse yet. If he had, we would’ve noticed. The only way to reopen the cage would be to either go back in time and catch it while it was still open, or re-break all the seals – starting with Dean going to, then being rescued from, Hell.”

Dean turned a startling shade of green, and shook his head vehemently.

“No,” he muttered, “No way.”

“Agreed,” Sam said, “But that still leaves us with, ‘Who can take down Raph?’”

“Lemme guess,” Bobby said, “Cassiel’s a dead-end too?”

“Yes,” Cas said blankly.

Silence reigned as Dean finished tying Cas’s wounds closed. He flinched as Dean tied the bandages tightly.

“Can’t you heal yourself?” Dean asked, concerned.

“No,” Cas said, “I’m using up most of my energy just staying conscious.”

Dean sighed, and started to pack the first-aid kit away.

Sam stared at the clock hanging on the wall, its slow _tick, tock, tick, tock,_ beginning to drive him mad. He could not – _could not_ – go through the Apocalypse again. He would not survive it.

“Cas,” Sam asked, “Is there anything – anything at all – that we can do? Something besides _‘warn our friends and hunker down?’_ ”

Cas frowned, thinking. Without seeming to notice, he ran his fingers over his fresh bandages.

“There is someone I could call who might know more,” Cas said slowly, brow furrowed, “But if I could avoid talking to him, I would. There are a multitude of eyes looking for him at the moment.”

“Well,” Bobby said, “What choice do we have?”

Cas looked around him, and spied Sam’s notepad and pen on the table next to the couch. He plucked it up, and began drawing something.  Sam shared a look with Dean, before wandering over to check out what he was doing.

“There were one or two flaws in your summoning spell,” Cas explained to all of them, “If I hadn’t _wanted_ to come to you two, I wouldn’t have had to.”

He finished the symbol he’d drawn, and ripped the page free. He gave it to Sam without much consideration, then started writing something down in – was that _Latin?_

“This,” Cas said, as he tore that paper free, “Is the corrected spell. It will work.”

“So,” Bobby asked, refilling his own mug of coffee, “Who are we summoning?”

“An old…” Cas paused with a slight frown, “Friend of mine. An angel named Balthazar. He owes me a favor.”

Dean, Sam, and Bobby shared a loaded look.

“If he’s an ‘old friend’,” Sam asked, “Why do you look like you just tried to swallow a lemon whole?”

Cas seemed to consider telling them the story, but a look from Bobby got him to cop to the truth immediately. He had that ‘dad’ look. The _‘Don’t make me be disappointed in you_ ’ look. It worked miracles on just about everyone.

“Balthazar and I were in the same garrison. He was a very good friend to me, up until… he fell. He tried to bolt from Heaven. I was sent out with much of our army to reclaim him; and I was the first to find him.”

“You didn’t turn him in, did you?” Dean said knowingly, “You let him go?”

“I gave him a five-minute head start,” Cas corrected, “And it was all he needed. For a century, he managed to avoid detection. Then…” Cas’s gaze went far away, as if he were looking into another time. He probably was.

“…His luck ran out. He was captured, and thrown in prison, not too far from Raziel’s own cell. He was there up until the end of the Apocalypse. While I was in Heaven, I learnt he’d taken the opportunity to escape while everyone was wrapped up with the battle here on Earth. And not only that,” Cas sniffed irritably, “He both freed two more prisoners, and stole a treasury of artifacts and weapons. He must’ve been planning for decades. And I believe you may know one of his fellow escapees.”

“Who’d he free?” Dean demanded.

“Anna Milton was the first.” Cas answered.

“Anna?” Sam asked, stunned, “Isn’t she dead?”

“No,” Cas explained, “Her vessel was annihilated, and she was locked up – ironically – right next to Balthazar. But she is not the concern. The other angel…His name is Gadreel.”

“Wait,” Bobby said, “Where have I heard that name before?”

“He was the angel who failed to guard Eden,” Cas explained somberly, “He is the reason humanity was corrupted.”

Sam’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. Dean’s face went white. Bobby looked like he needed another drink.

“From what I hear,” Cas continued, “The three of them are still together, hiding somewhere in New Orleans, Louisiana. If we could summon him, he may know some useful information. But he has experience guarding himself; we’ll need to be as close to him as possible.”

“Perfect,” Dean muttered, “A road trip.”

 


	4. Alone Together

Dean did _not_ like Louisiana.

He’d been there once, as a kid. His only real memory of the place was the mosquitoes; they’d eaten him absolutely raw. Even weeks after leaving the place, he still had itchy scars.

At the very least, it was early September right now. Summer had just eased away to Fall, and the bugs would soon be dead and rotting in Hell, where they belonged.

It took about eighteen hours to get there, even driving day and night, stopping only for gas and food. They had to go all the way across the country to get to New Orleans from South Dakota. Normally, that was Dean’s favorite kind of journey; but alas, they were rather pressed for time.

Dean remembered asking sometime on their journey, “Hey, Cas, why doesn’t Raph just go back in time to when the Cage was open? Grab us and hightail it out before we got in the way?”

Cas had been resigned to the back seat, but he was taking it with grace. His wounds made it difficult to move, so he and Dean had stacked pillows against the left-side door. All he had to do to get comfy was lean sideways.

“Because he still doesn’t know where we were at the time,” Cas answered, “The final battle was private, for the most part; and archangels are not omniscient.”

These thoughts were still with Dean when they crossed into his least favorite United State (right after Texas). It was obvious enough, he thought, though he still wondered about it. Were the angels all just as confused as the humans were at the moment? Were they just lost, looking for someone to tell them what to do, because that was all they knew?

He decided not to ponder on it too much. Humanizing the people you may wind up killing only lead to pain.

Once in New Orleans, they managed to find a cheap motel that wouldn’t ask any awkward questions. Cas normally didn’t need sleep, but he was still very weak. Nearly all of his energy went towards staying conscious, checking for trouble, and answering and rejecting all sorts of queries and half-baked plans from the brothers.

Dean double-checked the warding he’d sprayed over the Impala in a slightly lighter shade of black, making sure that nothing was wrong with it. Cas opted to stay in the car – he said the warding would make it easier for him to keep himself cloaked. Sam insisted on at least blowing up an inflatable mattress, so that he could get some decent rest.

While Sam blew into the mattress till his face turned a worrying shade of purple, Dean bought a cheap map of the city to show to Cas.

“So, where do you think your friend’s hiding?” he asked, showing Cas the map.

The angel looked tired, but he studied the map with genuine care.

“Where’s the…” Cas trailed off, searching for the right words, “‘Wildest’ part of New Orleans?”

Dean cocked an eyebrow.

“Are we talking about wild as in ‘least habitable’ or wild as in ‘massive raves and parties?’”

“The last one,” Cas answered.

“Um…” Dean studied the map and wracked his brain, “The French Quarter, maybe? I honestly don’t know.”

Cas had started to sway worryingly, his eyes losing focus, and Dean decided that was enough for now.

“Look, we’ll pick it up in the morning, okay? Besides, you said the spell would be strongest if we were close. On a cosmic level, we’re already pretty much on top of the guy. Let’s just find a place to perform the summoning, and go from there.”

Cas didn’t argue – he didn’t seem to have the energy – so Dean took it as approval. Sam had finally got the blown-up mattress into the backseat of the car, and sent them both a victorious smile.

After loading Cas into the makeshift-bed, Dean closed and locked the Impala, and headed inside. Sam was game to stay up a little longer and research some hotspots where they might perform the summoning, but Dean was exhausted. After calling Bobby and confirming that everyone who could be warned had been warned, he fell on top of his bed and crashed.

…

The New Orleans night was thick with smog, and far away, voices could be heard; laughing, yelling, or just talking. The sound of too-loud radios playing the top forties blasted out of every crevice in this part of town, sometimes mingled with spots of smooth jazz. The unnatural florescent lights cast everything in a strange, neon glow, and blotted out the stars. The smell of cigarette smoke, urine, and alcohol soaked absolutely _everything._

He hated it. He’d wanted to go to New York, to Central Park. It was open there, and clean, but still busy enough keep them covered. But he’d been outvoted; so, what was he to do?

The prized black Chevy sat outside what he’d learnt was called a ‘no-tell motel’, quiet and unassuming. No passers-by could even dream of the action it had seen; but then, that was true for him too, wasn’t it?

His footsteps were soundless as he walked past the car. A sleeping form in the backseat caught his eye, giving him pause.

He’d heard of Castiel – he knew all of his brothers and sisters’ names and faces, at the very least – but he was much smaller than Gadreel had expected. His grace was worn thin, and his body was starved small.

Frowning, he made his way to the door of the motel room. A brass number ‘6’ glinted in the faint light from the motel sign. He reached for the handle, then stopped.

Did he really need to go in? Surely leaving it out here was enough?

With a disgruntled sigh, he took the note out of his pocket and slipped it into a crack in the window of the Impala, making sure it landed on Castiel’s sleeping form.

There; his job was done. Now maybe the others would give him some peace.

…

 

 

_Dear Cassy,_

_11:00_   
_New Orleans Zoo_   
_By the orangutans_

_Bring Tweedldee & Tweedledum_   
_Don’t be late;)_

_Love, Balthy_

“You’re kidding me, right?” Sam asked, handing the note back to Cas.

“No,” Cas answered with a sigh, “This is Balthazar, I’m certain. He can be… eccentric.”

“Eccentric isn’t the word I’d use,” Dean muttered, still upset about being woken at _Five-freaking-a.m._ by Cas banging on the motel door.

“So, are we going?” Sam asked, rubbing the grime out of his eyes. He got maybe five hours of sleep the night before, and his research was for naught. He could list every single major attraction and major historical monument in Louisiana (and there were _a lot_ of them), but there was absolutely no sign of angelic activity in the area.

“Well,” Dean sighed, “We don’t have any better leads. Let’s pick up breakfast and scope out the zoo in advance.” _And let’s hope that this trip was worth it_ , he added quietly to himself. 

 


	5. Twin Skeletons

Dean honestly wished he’d been in a more relaxed state when he first visited the New Orleans Zoo. He wasn’t much of an animal person, but he could appreciate them well enough from a distance.

They were the first people in the door. The zoo was ridiculously overpriced, but Dean paid without much hassle. Sam grabbed an ‘I-HEART-NOZ’ baseball cap at the gift shop to be polite, then went about finding a restaurant they could eat at.

Meanwhile, Cas and Dean set about scoping out the area. The zoo itself was circular, cut up into five segments like a pie. There was a path running around the inside of the zoo, boasting cafés, restaurants and souvenir stores. The main entrance into the zoo had a long, two-laned walkway that went on for a while towards the center. As they walked, they passed the larger enclosures; To their left, a small pride of lions was finishing off the last of last night’s dinner; to their right, a large terrain with a mega-sized pool held a handful of hippos.

Further on, other African beauties graced them. Gazelles and impala (Dean liked those) ate from their troughs, and lazed under the large thorn trees that had been planted in their enclosure. One piece of land was mostly water, with just an island or two visible. A seven-meter long Nile crocodile gave them a mean look, as if to say, _‘If you aren’t edible, leave me the hell alone’_. Dean decided to respect his wishes, because he knew, courtesy of many vampires, that he was one tasty son of a bitch.

There was a staircase leading up to a four-meter-high walkway, where you could pet the giraffes’ noses if they let you. A thicker, meaner looking enclosure held a sleeping leopard, whose tail flicked back and forth carelessly.

They only downside to the place was the smell – like a farmyard, but somehow worse.

Just past the elephant habitat, they reached the center of the zoo. Four cobblestone roads were laid out in front of them, all going in different directions. A large signpost stood before them, with arrow-shaped signs pointing down the different paths.

The one pointing to their right read: ‘FANTASTIC FISH!’  
The next one said: ‘RIDONKULOUS REPTILES!’  
The one after: ‘AMAZING APES!’  
And the final one: ‘BRILLIANT BIRDS!’

“That one,” Dean said, “That’s where we’ll meet Balthazar, right?”

“Yes,” Cas answered, “But shouldn’t we scope out the entire zoo?”

“Sure,” Dean said, “If we have the time.”

Honestly, Dean just wanted a direction to walk in. For completely understandable reasons, he wasn’t fond of crossroads.

They were only five minutes down the ‘Apes’ path when Sam texted Dean.

**Found a Café. Sending u location on map. C U soon**   
**-S**

“Come on,” Dean said, “Sam found us some grub.”

Almost on cue, Cas’s stomach rumbled. He looked down at it with mild alarm, and Dean couldn’t help but let the corner of his mouth twitch upward.

As they were walking back towards the crossroads, Dean felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up straight. Slowly, cautiously, he turned to look left.

A female silver-back gorilla – ‘Mango’, according to her plaque – was right up against the edge of her enclosure, as close to Dean as she could get. She stared straight into his eyes, not blinking or breaking eye-contact at all.

She had brown eyes, so very, very human. And there was something in them – some kind of understanding or comprehension – that kept him rooted to the spot, meeting her gaze.

A much smaller, much cuter head popped up over her shoulder, and started playing with Mango’s ear. Although her interest in Dean never wavered, she was too good of a mother to let her child go unattended. Carefully, she plucked the baby (Dean checked the plaque; ‘Popsicle’ was her name) off her back, and settled her in her arms; exactly the way a human mother would.

Something in Dean’s chest tightened at the sight. He wasn’t just remembering his own mother – her soft smile, strong hands, and melodic laugh – but he was also reminded of Ellen and Jo.

“Dean?” Cas had been walking onward, but turned back when he realized he was walking alone.

He turned to follow Dean’s gaze, and smiled.

“She likes you,” he told Dean, catching his friend’s attention.

“Why?” he asked, looking back at Mango; she still watched Dean with the same knowing eyes.

“She senses your loneliness,” Cas explained patiently, “Animals see things on a very different level than humans do; even though you and Mango are closer genetically than you would think. She can pick up on your pain, and it worries her.”

“Why the Hell would she be worried about me?” Dean asked, “What about me does she care about? I’m just a random human.”

“Not to her,” Cas whispered, almost too quiet to hear.

Dean turned to Cas, confused, but Cas continued on before Dean even had to ask.

“Do you see those scars on her wrists?” Cas asked. Dean hadn’t at first, but now that Cas had pointed them out, he could see them. A thin strip of raw skin encircling each wrist like a morbid bracelet, where fur didn’t grow.

“What about them?” He asked.

“She got them when she was a baby, no older than her own child. She was born in the wild, to a troupe of gorillas in East Africa. One day, her troupe was set upon by trappers. They killed the alpha male, her father, and caught as many of the babies and mothers as they could. Her mother tried to protect her, and paid dearly for it. They shot her with a cheaply-altered harpoon gun, straight through the head; Mango saw it all.”

Dean’s stomach dropped to his feet. He wanted to tell Cas to shut the hell up; wanted to tell him that he didn’t need to know this. Mango’s face darkened, as if she could guess what they were talking about, and she pulled her blissfully-ignorant baby closer.

“Mango was shoved into a cage, and put on a truck. Her mother’s body was thrown into the truck with her. She’d reached through the bars trying to reach her mother, but her hands got stuck. The truck rode over dirt and gravel for eight hours straight, and her wrists were scraped almost to the bone.”

Mango started to rock herself and her baby, as if trying to calm them both down.  She made a high-pitched sound of distress, and a large, male gorilla on the other side of the enclosure gave them a dark look.

“That’s enough, Cas,” Dean said softly, “You’re freaking her out.”

“My point is, Dean,” Cas responded, lowering his voice a bit, “When she looks at you, she sees someone else whose mother was ripped away from them far too young, and in a way that never should have been.”

Dean whipped his head towards Cas, but the angel was focused on the great ape.

“When she looks at you,” Cas concluded, “She sees herself.”

He turned to meet Dean’s eyes then, and Dean realized just how close they were standing. For the first time, he realized that he actually stood an inch or two _above_ Cas. Dean thought that was funny, given how much more powerful than him Cas actually was. The moment was cut short by Dean’s beeping phone, and he cursed.

“Shit. Sam probably thinks we’ve been abducted or something,” he said, “We should head back.”

Cas held Dean’s gaze a second longer, before dropping his eyes and turning back towards the crossroads.

Dean shot one last look at Mango and Popsicle. The gorillas had moved, and were happily lazing on top of their jungle-gym, without a care in the world.

Dean shook his head as if to clear it of cobwebs, and jogged after Cas.

Unbeknownst to Angel, human, and gorilla alike, a man sat on a nearby park bench, watching the entire seen play out.

“Interesting,” he muttered, as he popped a jelly-bean into his mouth, “Very interesting.”


	6. This Ain't a Scene, It's a Goddamn Arms Race!

“Where the Hell were you?” Sam demanded once Dean and Cas came into view.

“Keep your panties on, Sammy, we were just scoping out the apes,” Dean said, joining his brother at the café table.

For a minute, Sam and Dean studied the map, making sure they knew where all the exits and hiding places were. Sam had used a red marker to sketch an ‘x’ over the orangutan enclosure, and little lines to other places of note: the café where they sat, the main entrance/exit, the employees-only entrance, and the best vantage point – the giraffe walkway.

A pretty teenage waitress with braces and a hijab wandered up to them with a large smile.

“Hi! I’m Fatima, and I’ll be your waitress today. Can I getcha anything?”

Dean smiled flirtatiously, and leaned forward.

“Can I get a ‘Mega-Sized Sunny Breakfast’ and a black filter coffee? Sammy here will take a Greek Salad and a cappuccino, and Cassy will take a cheeseburger with salad and a tall orange juice.”

“Will that be all?” she asked, scribbling furiously on her notepad with a flower-themed pen.

“Yeah,” Sam said, shooting a glance at Dean, “That’s all. Thank you.”

As Fatima walked away, Sam continued to stare at Dean.

“What?” He asked.

“Orange juice?” Sam asked him, amusement seeping into his voice, “Really?”

“The guy still needs to get his blood sugar back up!” Dean responded defensively. Sam chuckled, and Cas just looked on in faint confusion.

“That reminds me,” Sam said, and pulled something out of his breast-pocket, “You nearly forgot your glasses in the car.”

Dean shot Sam a blank look. “Sammy, I don’t need glasses. You do know that, right?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “They’re dipped in holy oil, dummy.”

“That’s a good idea,” Cas said, “Balthazar can be tricky. It would be better for you if you saw things as they are.”

Dean sighed, and snagged the glasses from Sam’s hand. They were really just pieces of glass in glasses frames, so they didn’t screw with his vision too much, at least. The holy oil sort-of ‘rinsed away’ the illusions offered by most monsters. With these glasses, they could see demons, angels, monsters and witches alike.

The moment they were on his face, a shadow fell over Dean’s vision, blocking out the sun. Looking around, he realized the shadow came from Cas.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean whispered, staring at their angel with awe. Sam followed Dean’s gaze, and felt his breath snag in his throat.

A pair of huge wings sprouted from Cas’s back.  They were avian, definitely, and almost rectangular, like an owl’s. They were the same color as charcoal, and were curled in a protective circle around the two brothers, so that the tips overlapped. The early sunlight caught the edges, letting off a dark purple gleam – and they were scorched, like the feathers had been held over an open flame. 

Aside from that, Dean could also see Cas’s halo; and it didn’t look like he thought it would look. It was as if liquid pearls ran through his veins instead of blood; his entire body glowed. His eyes gleamed with a white light, and when he looked Cas straight in the eyes, it was like a needle of pain shot through his corneas.

He flinched, and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were still burning.

“What?” Cas asked, “What is it?”

Neither Dean nor Sam could manage to speak. Dean was too busy blinking furiously to be bothered with words, and Sam was almost obsessively studying the longer feathers in Cas’s wings.

To the outside world, they must’ve looked batshit crazy; but funnily, they couldn’t bring themselves to care.

“Um,” they were startled by Fatima’s return, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah!” Sam jumped and answered, just a little too loudly, “Yeah, we’re, uh, good.”

Her smile became a little more forced, and she quickly left the coffee, cappuccino, and orange juice in front of them, before speed-walking back to the kitchen.

“So,” Sam said, “Did you find anything worth mentioning?”

Dean didn’t respond, too busy studying the wing closest to him.

“Dean!”

“Huh?” He looked up quickly, confused, “What? What did I miss?”

Sam sighed.

“Just drink your coffee. We need to get moving.”

Dean checked his watch; **08:06** AM. the meeting was at eleven. He sighed, and got to drinking.

…

Dean had spent the last fifteen minutes watching an old orangutan pick its nose with its little finger, and he was slowly starting to debate shooting himself in the head. It was **11:16** AM, and he didn’t know how much more he could take.

The sun was beating down on everyone mercilessly, but Dean and Sam were somewhat protected by Cas’s wings, which arched over their heads like an umbrella. Still, he had to keep pushing the glasses back up his nose, because they were always slipping down, thanks to his sweat.

Dean still couldn’t stop looking at the wings; they were beautiful, yes, but deeply damaged too. Had that happened in Hell? Or were they like that before?

“The note said ‘eleven’, right?” Sam asked for the fifth time in the last ten minutes.

“Yes,” Dean responded through gritted teeth, “Yes, it said ‘eleven’.”

“Have patience,” Cas chastised, “Balthazar is not used to human time yet.” He paused, considering. “Either that or, more likely, he’s letting us ‘stew’.”

“Gossiping about me, Cassy?”

Dean spun on his heal, letting an angel blade slip out of his jacket sleeve. Sam followed suit, making sure he stepped sideways to cut their host off if he decided to bolt. It wouldn’t do much against an angel, but old habits die hard.

Balthazar was a thin, wiry blonde man with prominent stubble and deep-set crow’s feet next to his blue eyes. A pair of sunglasses sat perched on a beak-like nose, and his smile made Dean incredibly nervous.

He had the same kind of halo Cas had, with the same glowing eyes. His wings were roughly the same size too, but the joints were a little more well-defined, and the feathers just a little longer. They weren’t black like Cas’s, but were instead a wine color; a dark, purple-red.

“Balthazar,” Cas greeted, tucking his wings in close to make room for his friend. Balthazar responded to Cas’s greeting by grabbing his tie, pulling him close, and kissing him on the mouth.

Dean choked on a lung. Sam’s jaw landed somewhere near his feet. For a full five seconds, neither brother could successfully process what they were seeing.

A glow, bright and hypnotic, passed over Cas’s skin, and he let out a deep breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. The pain that had stayed with him for days now faded. Finally, Balthazar broke the kiss, grinning like the cat who got the cream.

“So,” Balthazar strolled past Cas, and leaned against the handrail, facing the brothers, “What can I do for you?” He folded and tucked his wings in close like Cas had done, so that they didn’t get in the way.

“We need some information,” Cas answered, nothing more than resigned to his friend’s behavior, “Information we were hoping you could provide us with.”

Balthazar’s grin widened.

“So, _that’s_ what this is all about,” he drawled, “I should’ve known.”

Cas raised an eyebrow. “Does that mean you won’t help us?”

“Look, Cassy,” Balthazar sighed, “I would love to help you knock Raphael down a notch – that is your plan, yes? – but I…can’t.”

“You can’t.” Cas said flatly after a moment.

“Well, why not?” Dean demanded, suddenly finding his voice, “What, you got something _better_ to do?”

“Cassy, please mind your pet’s insolence.”

“They are not my pets,” Cas defended, “And why can you not help us?”

“I _want_ to,” Balthazar reassured, “But I _can’t_. I just got out of jail, and- do you have _any idea_ how many eyes are on you? Just meeting you here like _this…_ ” he rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Balthazar,” Cas impeached quietly, startling both of the brothers, “Please? At least hear us out.”

The blond angel’s face went through a variety of pained expressions, before he finally seemed to physically deflate.

“Fine. You know what? Fine,” he sighed, “Let’s go find a safer place to talk.”

Cas smiled sweetly, “Thank you.”

Balthazar grumbled, leading the way down one of the paths. Cas followed, and for the first time, didn’t check to make sure the brothers followed as well.

…

As they walked back towards the zoo entrance, Dean shot Sam a pleading look. Sam rolled his eyes dramatically, but quickened his pace so that he could walk alongside Balthazar. Dean made sure to stay level with Cas, so that they could talk once Sam had distracted the other angel.

It was a technique they’d used many times before, when they wanted to get victims alone.

Sam ducked dramatically under one of Balthazar’s wings before coming up next to him.

“So,” Sam asked, catching the angel’s attention, “You just got out of jail, right?”

Balthazar shot him a look, and said, “Yes.”

“Then, I have to ask; of all the places you could go, like Vegas or Tokyo; why _New Orleans Zoo?_ ”

Balthazar huffed in amusement, but deigned to explain himself.

“In the thirties, a mad witch tried to cross-breed monsters here. He wanted to see what would happen if he crossed a vampire with a ghoul, or a werewolf with a skin-changer, etc. A group of…hunters stopped him in the end, but to hide himself initially, he warded this place against outsiders. _Heavily._ He even added angel wards, which is why we chose this particular haunt.”

“We?” Sam asked, playing dumb.

Balthazar gave him another look.

“Myself, and two other angels who came with me. We broke out of jail together, and in return for trusting me to take the big leap, I brought them here; to a place where they wouldn’t be found.”

While Sam was busy chatting up Balthazar, Dean slipped beside Castiel.

“‘Old friend’, huh?” He asked quietly.

“Yes,” Cas responded with a frown, “Balthazar _is_ an old friend. I’ve told you this already, Dean.”

For the first time, Dean wondered if Cas only pretended to not understand sarcasm and hints, to ostracize himself from people and situations he didn’t like.

“Y’know, I had a couple of ‘old friends’ too, once,” he said conversationally, “I don’t remember making out with most of them.”

Cas sighed deeply. “Balthazar has not been in a human body for many centuries, now. He is merely…excited.”

Dean huffed. “Yeah, I can see that.”

Cas gave him a strange look, but didn’t comment on his tone. Up ahead, Sam and Balthazar suddenly stopped dead. Dean couldn’t see the other angel’s face, but his wings ruffled in agitation. Cas’s face went blank, and his own wings flared out, wrapping somewhat around Dean.

Sam backed up carefully to where Dean and Cas stood, and Cas’s wing moved to accompany him. “Uh, Dean,” Sam whispered, “We have a problem.”

Dean, never one to be intimidated, marched forward; ignoring Cas’s hissed warning. He ducked around Balthazar, who didn’t so much as glance in his direction. He’d been expecting Raphael, or maybe his henchmen. Crowley would’ve made sense too, or some kind of monster.

But instead, it was a Caucasian man, maybe mid-thirties, at least as tall as Sam, and just as built. A faint glow shifted around him, and his eyes were a gleaming white. He was an angel; and a well-hidden one at that. Dean almost hadn’t noticed the glow and his eyes at first, but the wings were unmistakable.

They were a steely-silver color, like a white that had slowly dimmed with time, and far bigger than Cas’s or Balthazar’s; in addition to that, they looked to be decomposing. Feathers were missing, flesh hung loosely from bone, and what downy feathers he still had were scratched-at and raw. The right wing looked to be broken in half, and only recently reset. He’d never met the man before, but he knew who this was; few people got such a reaction from Cas.

“You must be Gadreel,” Dean greeted, “If you don’t mind, we’re a little pressed for time, so if you could just…” Dean made a shooing gesture with his hand, gaining a slightly hysterical look from Balthazar, and a glower from Gadreel. Behind him, he heard Cas suck in air through his teeth, as if he was in physical pain.

Gadreel’s voice was deep and soft, but it carried over to them easily. “I heard that The Michael Sword had a _mouth;_ but I did not realize he was also suicidal.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, and moved to reply, but his breath stuck in his throat. He whipped his head around to Balthazar, who was holding his hand up at Dean in a ‘stop’ motion. Coughing did nothing to loosen the knot keeping his voice locked-up tight.

“Gadreel,” Balthazar began, “Listen-”

 _“No,”_ Gadreel responded, “You assured me you only wished to speak with them to keep them from summoning you, which was fair. But the longer they stay here, the more at risk we are. I will not be going back to prison, Balthazar.”

He never raised his voice, not once, but Sam thought it might have been better if he had. Rage and madness were predictable, to an extent. Familiar, even; at least for him. This quiet, calm certainty belied a ruthlessness that would not be easily stopped; and Sam did not want to get in its way.

“No,” Balthazar wisely agreed, “You won’t. I take full responsibility for them. Castiel is my friend; he will not out us. And if you’d rather the two mud monkeys waited out here, you’ll find no complaint from me.”

“Now wait a minute-” Sam started, but a small hand gesture from Balthazar shut down his throat too.

Dean felt Cas step up next to him, and relaxed somewhat. Cas took his time studying Gadreel, and the other angel did the same.

At last, Gadreel spoke. “I would rather have them down there with us than left up here unsupervised. But know this,” he didn’t yell, but Sam had the impression that he wanted to, “If they bring our jailers down on our heads, I will throw you both at them to get away.”

Balthazar gave a small chuckle. “Thank you, Gadreel. Now, um-” He turned to the brothers, who were both glaring at him, red-faced. “Right.”

Suddenly, Dean’s throat relaxed, and he sucked in greedy gulps of air. He planned to give Balthazar a piece of his mind, but Cas stopped him. “Let’s not press our luck,” he whispered.

Dean grumbled something under his breath, but miraculously, obeyed. Gadreel shot them all one last look, before turning and making his way into the ‘Employees Only’ section. A young guard sat in front of the entrance, but with a wave of the hand from Gadreel, he simply nodded dully, and swiped his own key-card over the scanner.

They made their way through a corridor that lead to a staircase, taking them below ground. With his glasses off, Dean could see nothing out of the ordinary, but with them on, he could see faint wards glimmering on the walls.

A haze clung to the air, as if they were looking into the distance on a hot day. Cas, Balthazar, and Gadreel’s wings shifted in and out of focus, as if his eyes couldn’t decide what they were seeing. It was suddenly difficult to think straight; all Dean wanted to do was turn tail and walk out the same way he’d come in.

Cas grabbed his shoulder before he could, and kept him on course. “These are the wards we were told about,” he whispered, “Just keep walking.”

Dean glanced at Sam, and found he was also having trouble. The taller Winchester blinked uncertainly, and almost moved to turn around, but Cas steadied him as well.

They turned into another passage, this one taking them towards a sort of underground crossroad. He recognized it as being a mimic of the one in the middle of the zoo, with the same four paths splintering off from it. The doors on every side had different names on them; ‘Elephants’, ‘Gazelles’, ‘Lions’, etc.

“These are the doors the workers use to get into the enclosures,” Balthazar explained, breaking the chilly silence, “But they’re not in use during open hours.”

They turned left, following the path that would have lead them to the ‘AMAZING APES!’ above ground. After following it for another five minutes or so, they came across a large storage-room of sorts. It was about the size of a small warehouse, and along the far wall, a long row of cells stood bare and open.

In some cases, the doors merely had the locks broken; but in others, the doors had been wrenched away, leaving bent and dented metal bars in its place. In the closest corner to their right, piles of forty or fifty-kilogram bags were labelled ‘Gorilla Toys’.

To their left was an impromptu kitchen, which was little more than an old camping table with a gas stove and some take-away plates, spoons and forks. A myriad of protein and nutrition bars were neatly stacked next to the plates, along with bottled water and Styrofoam cups. 

In the two closest cells, some basic beds – also used for camping – had been set up, with blankets folded at the foot of the cots, clothes neatly tucked into cheap bedside-stands, and (no joke) Pillow Pets™ sitting at the head of their cots. In the space next to the feeds and the empty cells, another cot had been set up the same way; but its occupant had stubbornly refused to sleep in a confined space, even without a functioning lock.

Before them, a backless couch sat in front of a table with nothing more than a radio and some tools on it. A light-fixture on the ceiling bathed everything in a warm, orange glow. You could tell the inhabiants cared about their home.

Dean wanted to say the place looked pathetic, but honestly, he couldn’t. The room was absolutely, spotlessly clean. There was a comfortable carpet laid out over the floor, and the place even smelt minty, with just a hint of farmyard.

But the place was not what first grabbed his attention. The twenty-or-so-year-old woman seated on the couch immediately caught his eyes. She had dark skin and a button nose, with fiery red hair. She had a pair of wings, roughly a tad smaller than Castiel’s, and shaped like a hummingbird’s wings. They were a soft shade of pinky-orange, like the sky at sunset. Dean did not need to be told he she was, either.

“Hey, Anna,” Dean greeted, sarcasm dripping from every syllable, “How’ve you been?”

Anna jumped like she’d been prodded with a tazer, and turned to them, wide-eyed. Her wings flapped anxiously.

Gadreel frowned. “Anabiel, do you _know_ these men?”

“Balthazar,” Anna asked instead of answering, “Why did you bring them _down here?”_

“I thought it would be amusing,” he deadpanned in response.

She glared at him. Dean thought she might rebuke harshly, but Cas interrupted them all.

“Listen,” he said, “We don’t have much time. I do not wish to get anyone into trouble; but I need information Balthazar – or either of you – may have. Will you hear us out?”

Balthazar turned to look at his two companions. Anna looked wary, and Gadreel was still giving her a strange look.

“Do we have a choice?” Anna asked sourly.

“Well, we’re already here,” Sam said, “You might as well let us explain why we interrupted your vacation.”

The three escapee angels shared a few loaded looks that Sam and Dean knew all too well. Finally, and with clear reluctance, Anna sat back down and continued to fiddle with her radio. Her feathers were incredibly ruffled, and they twitched and flapped nervously. Gadreel made his way to the ‘kitchen’ for a protein bar, and Balthazar gestured to one of the personalized cells; the one closest to them.

“So,” Balthazar started, sitting down heavily on the edge of his bed, and tucking his wings in close to make room. “What is it _I_ might know that dragged you out here?”

“Your guess earlier was correct,” Cas answered, leaning against the side of the cell, “We do intend to fight Raphael. But we alone do not have that kind of power.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Anna chimed in, “I heard about your resurrection, Castiel. One would assume you could handle one pesky archangel easily after that.”

Cas turned to give Anna a dark look, but before anyone could say anything, Balthazar interrupted. “Actually, she just asked you the same thing I was about to ask you.”

For the first time, Cas didn’t seem comfortable discussing his miraculous return from death. “I honestly don’t know what happened to me.”

From her couch, Anna scoffed.

“It’s true,” Cas said defensively, his wings curling tight around him. “I have no recollection of my reincarnation. I remember the events leading up to it. I remember the pain; and then waking up. But I do not recall the time in-between.”

“So, no messages?” Gadreel asked, joining the conversation. “No talking to God?”

“If it _was_ God who brought me back.” Cas sounded doubtful.

Anna perked up, catching his tone. “You think it was something else?”

“ _I. Don’t. Know._ ” His tone left no room for anymore argument on the matter.

For the first time, Dean got a sense about how much those two miracles weighed on Cas. How many questions he must’ve been asked, and how not having the answers was slowly driving him up the wall.

“Anyway,” Sam said, bringing them back to the point, “What we need is something or someone that could bring Raphael down. None of us can do it, and we were hoping that you knew something most ordinary angels wouldn’t.” He paused, before adding, “If not, we’ll leave, and forget where you live.”

Balthazar considered them all quietly, one by one, and Sam could feel Anna and Gadreel doing the same.

“God could do it,” Balthazar said at last, “So could Death. But neither will.”

“We know,” Dean said, “Our money is on another archangel; or an artifact. We heard you went on a raid while escaping?”

Balthazar gave him a cold look. “I have nothing that could bring down Raphael; nothing in _my_ third of the stash, at least. Anna, Gad, and I split the loot as fairly as we could; but we were unable to reach anything that could’ve taken out an archangel. Your only shot is with Raphael’s brothers.”

“Like Gabriel?” Anna asked, and Sam turned to give her a strange look.

“Yeah, like Gabriel,” he replied, “But Gabriel is dead, isn’t he?”

She paused, considering. “There’ve been rumors, but nothing concrete. And with the amount of times Gabriel has died already…”

“It is a possibility,” Cas said, “But let’s clear all our bases. Balthazar, what do you know of Raziel, Cassiel, and Samael?”

Balthazar pursed his lips, thinking. His wings twitched somewhat, belying his anxiety.  

“Well,” He started, “First off, I didn’t know much about Raziel. Gadreel was in jail the longest; so, he knew the archangel best. As for Samael, Anna took most of her inspiration from him. Check with her. But I _can_ tell you about Cassiel.”

Sam turned to quietly analyze the other two angels present. Anna had gone stiff, her wings looking more carved-from-stone than organic; and Gadreel was slowly inching towards the door, as if he wanted to run. It was clear neither appreciated being brought into the debate.

“Cassiel was quiet, and stayed alone mostly.” Balthazar was saying, “I remember when he disappeared. It was a huge uproar. First Lucifer, then Raziel, then Gabriel, now _this?_ But most of us just ignored it – if we knew about it at all. It didn’t affect us on as deep a level as you’d expect. So long as we had someone to tell us what to do, we were fine. And as for where he is; that I couldn’t tell you either. It’s been so long, and he never cropped up now-and-again like Gabriel did. You’d have more luck with the other two.”

“Thank you,” Cas said earnestly. Balthazar nodded tightly, and refused to meet Cas’s eyes.

Sam’s eyes, however, tracked Gadreel as he took another tiny step towards the door.

“Hey, Gadreel,” He called, not unkindly, “Mind telling us if you know anything about Raziel?”

Gadreel was not close enough to the door to make his intentions obvious, but he shot Sam a mean look all the same. His wings spread out somewhat, and Sam remembered reading somewhere that birds did that when threatened. Did that ring true for angels, too? Dean turned, having nearly forgotten they had other company present.

“I don’t know much about Raziel,” Gadreel grunted moodily, “Just that I would avoid him at all costs. He’s been in that cage so long, he’s lost his mind. He’d kill you, then Raphael, then anyone else he felt like killing.”

That was clearly all he had to say on the matter, and Sam was wise enough not to push.

“Anna?” Dean asked.

Anna paused, and tapped her screwdriver against her thigh anxiously.

“Would you trust my word?” She asked, not looking directly at them.

“We don’t have much of a choice,” He answered.

She sighed, fighting some kind of internal battle, before relenting.

“Samael fell to Earth as a human, like I did,” She said, “In fact, he is where I got the idea from. Three-hundred-and-fifty years ago, he carved his grace out of his body – which is like a human carving their own heart out – and dropped the pieces all over the American continent. The last piece of him landed in Europe, however, so nothing could be accurately traced back to him. For all intents and purposes, he lived a normal, human life, and died.”

“So, he’s a no-go,” Dean summarized bitterly.

“Not exactly,” Anna spoke hesitantly, “The pieces of his grace – seven of them total – have not all been found. Three of them were recovered, and locked up in a vault in Heaven. But the other four are still missing.”

Sam brightened somewhat, and shared a look with Dean.

“Don’t get too excited,” Balthazar warned, “Even altogether, the pieces still at large will not give you enough power to take down Raphael. For all he is one of the weakest, he’s still a complete archangel.”

“But they may help us hide, or give us the power to be a credible threat,” Cas argued.

“You’re _already_ a credible threat,” Balthazar reminded him, “No-one like you has ever existed before. No normal angel has ever been resurrected like you have been.”

“ _Someone’s_ _coming!”_ Gadreel interrupted. He was right near the door, staring down the hallway with wide eyes and flared wings.

“Human, angel, or other?” Anna asked, standing.

“Angels. Two.” He hissed in response, “The Winchesters compromised us. _I told you-!_ ”

“We don’t know that for _sure,_ ” Balthazar interrupted, standing quickly and grabbing his puppy-themed Pillow Pet™, blanket, a bottle of wine, and some protein bars.

Anna bolted to her own cell, and grabbed her meager belongings. She paused on her way out, and grabbed Gadreel’s things as well. (For those curious, Gadreel’s Pillow Pet™ was a panda, and Anna’s was a lion.)

“Where are you going?” Cas asked.

 _“Do not tell them!”_ Gadreel yelled, glaring at Balthazar.

“Sorry,” He said to Cas, “I hope you learned something that helped.”

He disappeared with the sound of flapping wings. When they turned, Anna and Gadreel were gone as well; and just in time.

Two men in neat, black suits rounded the corner, and stepped into the room with a synchronized confidence. With his glasses on, Dean could see their halos, and their wings. Startlingly white, but also flecked with a pale, luminescent color; like they’d been carved from opal. They were beautiful, but in an artificial way; like a plastic-infused supermodel. Even compared to the ‘ideal’ thing, Dean still preferred Cas’s.  

They did not look surprised to see the Winchesters at all. In fact, the one on the right – the taller of the two – smiled.

“Raphael will be pleased with this find,” he said, and his shorter, balder friend grinned in a way that was not at all friendly.

They both slipped their angel blades from the sleeves of their jackets, and strolled forward.


	7. Irresistible

“Wait!” Cas yelled, and the two angels paused. For a moment, Cas weighed his options. He was too weak to fight one brother, let alone two. And he had the Winchesters to think about as well; Sam and Dean were strong, brave fighters, but they were no match for the angels standing in front of them.

“I surrender,” he said, gaining shocked looks from Sam and Dean.

“You _what?!_ ” Dean asked, disbelieving.

“ _I surrender,_ ” Cas repeated through gritted teeth, as he slowly raised his arms. “I’m not strong enough to fight them.”

Sam’s eyes went wide. He started to reach behind his back for a blade, but Cas stopped him with a tap of his shoe against Sam’s boot.

“Well,” Hael, the angel on the left, said. “That makes our jobs _far_ easier. We have Castiel, the Michael Sword, and the Boy King. Raphael _will_ be pleased.”

The one on the right, Hester, narrowed his eyes. He was smarter than Hael, Cas knew; he would need convincing. Cas reached into his sleeve and slowly pulled his angel blade free. He dropped it to his feet, arms still raised carefully.

Both of them smiled, Hester’s sincerer than Hael’s.

They marched forward, checking all three of them over. A sharp look from Cas lead to Sam and Dean both dropping their own blades as well; though Dean did not look happy about it.

“You’ve made the right choice, Castiel,” Hester said, bending over to pick up the blades. For a second, Cas regretted what he was about to do.

He drove his knee into Hester’s stomach, winding him. For just a second, Hael was too stunned to move. That was all the time Cas needed.

Using the tip of his shoe, he flicked his blade back into his hand, and threw it like a throwing star. It impaled Hael right in the throat, slicing through his Adam’s apple, and killing him instantly.

Hester, after glancing right at Hael’s now-dead vessel, vanished.

Dean and Sam got with the program faster than your average human. In a heartbeat, they had their angel blades back in their hands as well.

All three of them, as a single unit, bolted out the door.

They were very, _very_ lucky, that they didn’t meet any more angels while running through the narrow corridor. Dean broke through into sunlight first, followed by Sam, then Cas. None of them so much as slowed down, all intent on making it to the relative safety of the impala.

All of a sudden, Cas stopped dead. “Wait!”

“What?” Sam and Dean stopped, turning to look at him.

Right where they’d been about to step, a blindingly bright shaft of light appeared. Out stepped Hester, flanked by two more angels in fancy pantsuits. Dean and Sam backed up cautiously, and Cas’s wings flared in an unspoken threat.

“Cas?” Sam asked quietly, “What's the plan?”

Cas readied his blade with a flick of his wrist. He knew he wouldn’t win if he decided to fight them; but Sam and Dean were _his_ humans. He would die before he let them be tortured the same way he had been.

“Run,” He whispered, “Far exit. Now.”

The three angels slipped their own blades from their sleeves in perfect unison, and stepped forward. But before the one on Cas's left could take three steps, he arched back, eyes glowing brightly, and a scream dying on his lips. From behind his own opal wings, a pair of maroon ones flared out.

Hester barely managed to block Balthazar’s strike for his neck. The angel on the right moved to sever their attacker’s wrists, but Cas was faster. He once more threw his blade, and the angel caught it with his hand – or rather, _through_ his hand. The blade stopped only an inch from the angel’s eye.

Hester slashed at Balthazar wildly to gain some space, but Balthazar offered no reprieve. With the enhanced physical speed and strength of angels, they were nothing more than a blur of loudly-clanging metal.

Dean rushed forward at the other angel before he could regain his wits, and drove the blade into his abdomen. The angel went down.

Hester finally drove Balthazar back far enough that he could gauge his surroundings. For the second time today, what had looked like an easy win had suddenly gone horribly wrong. In a flutter of wings, he disappeared.

They all took a moment to check their six. Walking towards each-other, they assured themselves that they’d been left alone for the time being.

“Now,” Balthazar said, shooting Cas a wink and a smile, “We’re even.”

Cas nodded seriously, and Balthazar vanished.

“Let’s get going,” Dean ordered, but didn’t even take a single step before Cas grabbed at his collar and yanked him to the side.

Where he had been standing, an angel blade whizzed by so fast Dean felt a breeze. They turned to find Hester glaring at them, white wings spread wide, and with a ferocity that didn’t belong on such a fair face.

“We gave you a chance, Castiel,” he hissed, “Know that.”

He clicked his fingers, and a loud, metallic _slink_ echoed throughout the zoo; the sound of over a hundred and twenty cages unlocking and swinging open.

…

“Son of a bitch!” Dean growled, teeth gritted and brow furrowed. His glasses had come askew in the skirmish, and his hair was slightly mussed.

The lions, from where he could see them, all glanced up at the open door with perked ears. The hippos didn’t seem too bothered, but a curious baby wandered over to the gate; and where baby went, mommy followed.

“Go,” Cas said, “I can take Hester. You need to lock down and evacuate the zoo.”

“Bu-” Dean started, but Cas stopped him with a glare. Dean thought it must’ve been difficult to glare at someone out of the corner of your eye; Cas, however, managed well enough. “Go.”

Sam and Dean shared a look.

“I’ll take the Main Entrance. You take the Employees Only Entrance. Nothing leaves.”

“Got it.” Sam nodded, and bolted down the ‘FANTASTIC FISH!’ path. Dean spared one more glance at Cas, then took off down the road they’d been heading for. 

“You are only at half strength, Castiel,” Hester said, “Surrender now, and your death will be quick.”

“So, this is how the Angel of Kindness shows his most prominent trait,” Cas rebuked, knowing exactly which buttons to push, “Good to know.”

Hester roared, and lunged.

…

Dean bolted the Main Entrance doors, and then broke the lock. He realized that he was locking the people already in the zoo inside, but he’d seen _Jurassic Park ll_ – better the fifty-or-so people in here than the fifty-thousand in all Louisiana.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

Dean spun on his heel, and came face-to-face with five-feet-two-inches of boiling rage. A small, slightly overweight African-American woman in a zookeeper’s uniform was snarling at him.

“Listen, lady,” he said, “The animals have been let out. They could do some damage here, fair enough, but if they get outside the park, the whole city’s in trouble.”

“An’ who gave _you_ the right to make that call, Ken Doll?” She asked, glaring harder, “I’m head zookeeper here. If anyone’s got the right to say what we do, it’s me.”

Dean blanched for a moment, then muttered, “Ma’am, yes ma’am.”

Despite the sarcasm, that seemed to appease her somewhat.

“Did you let these animals out, son?” She asked him seriously.

"Wha- no, ma'am, definitely not." Praying that these were the right jeans, he reached into his right-side pocket and pulled out an L.A.P.D. detective’s badge. “Detective Dean Novak, at your service.”

She raised a surprised eyebrow, but quickly got back down to business. “Then come with me; believe it or not, we have precautions in place for this kinda thing. And, Honey…” She gave him a quick up-and-down glance, “Lose the firearm. We have tranq-darts, and that’s all I wanna see you using.”

Feeling very much like the kid who got caught with his hand stuck in the cookie jar, Dean followed her back to the Main Building obediently.

Sam was having even worse luck. Locking up the private Employees-Only Entrance is a little difficult when there’s already an employee there, doing their best to get it open.

A short, somewhat bony, red-haired boy was trying to get the key into the lock with trembling hands. Sam quickly stepped forward and snatched them out of his grip.

“Hey! The hell do you-”

“Listen, kid,” Sam said, “If you open that door, a good few of these animals could get loose. They’ll get shot, hit by cars, or eat someone. Do you really wanna go through with this?”

“I wasn’t planning on leaving the door open behind me, Dumbass!”

Sam raised an eyebrow. It took the boy a moment to realize how what he’d said sounded, and he managed to look a little ashamed.

“Look, I’m just the cashier, man. I have no training for this kind of thing! You know we have a _leopard_ , right?”

Sam sighed, and with no forewarning, threw the keys over the gate. The cashier – Tristan, according to his name-tag – gawked at him, horrified.

“No worries, Kid,” Sam said with a smile, “If you live through this, at least you’ll have a good story for the grand-kids.”

Sam gently guided (read: grabbed and hauled) the kid back into the zoo, and towards the Main Building. He had to meet up with Dean and form a battle strategy. And besides, who knew? Tristan may prove useful somehow.

Meanwhile, back at the Main Building, Dean was taking stock of the visitors who’d come into the zoo, and those he and Margery – the head zookeeper – had managed to find and get to safety. A teenage couple sat trembling on one of the couches, an old man in a wheelchair calmly sipped his water bottle by the filing cabinets, and the waitress from earlier, Fatima, sat at the receptionist’s desk, analyzing video footage.

“We’re lucky it’s a weekday,” She said, “Otherwise, we’d have triple the people here. As it is, we already have maybe an eighth of everyone in the zoo here right now.”

“Great,” Dean said, “Care to give us a description of the people we still need to get?”

“I can’t, really,” She said sorrowfully, fingers flying over the computer keys like they had a mind of their own, “These cameras are really poorly positioned. But I can tell you that most of the people you’re looking for went into the Reptile Exhibit. Bad luck.”

She gave him an apologetic look, and with his borrowed park-employee jacket and detective badge, it wasn’t hard to see why.

The familiar sound of a rifle being loaded brought his attention back to Margery. Supple, well-practiced hands coaxed a dart into the chamber, then loaded nine more into her utility-belt.

“A’right,” she called, grabbing everyone’s attention, “I’m only gonna ask for volunteers, but I need people to help collect guests and other employees. Anyone?”

“Me,” Dean said, “Obviously.”

“I’ll come too,” Fatima said, standing. “I have just about zero actual training, but I’d want anyone out there to come for me, if our places had been switched.”

Dean smiled. Had she been a little older, and the situation a little less dire, he would most definitely have tried his luck with her.

The couple glanced at each-other; then the girl said, “I’ll come with.”

“I have basic first-aid training,” the boy said, “If there’s a kit here, I can treat the people you send in.”

“Good,” Margery said, “Right under the cupboard there, sweetie. Military grade, which means it's shit, but it'll do. Be ready to accept more people in, but be careful. We still don’t know who did this. And you girls,” Fatima and the other girl glanced up, “Pick up a tazer-prod, and follow me.”

Everyone, Dean included, did as they were told. Fatima, who was last out, made sure the young boy locked up behind them.

They were stopped barely a few feet out the door by a sight that likely hadn’t been seen outside of the Savannah ever before; giraffes, three of them, marched by along the cobblestone road. Dean could’ve walked right underneath one, and would barely have to duck. He couldn’t even see their heads because of the sun.

As they wondered off, a small baby – ‘small’ meaning ‘just an inch over Dean’s head’ – trotted quickly to catch up with the grown-ups, not even giving them a second glance.

Margery was the first to break the awed silence. “Come on. If they’ve figured out the door’s open, so have the lions.” That got everyone marching forward again.

The next strange creature they came across was Sam, and another young zookeeper whose name-tag read ‘Tristan’.

“Dean,” Sam greeted with a smile, “Remind me to never take your advice on where we vacation again.”

Dean gave a small chuckle, then turned to Margery.

“Ma’am, this is my partner, detective Sam Wesson. Sammy, this is head zookeeper Margery, Fatima we’ve already met, and…” It occurred to him that he didn’t have the other girl’s name. he smiled at her apologetically, and she was good-natured enough to smile back.

“Rebecca. I’m Rebecca Simpson.”

“Right,” Dean said, giving her a thankful nod, “And who is this?”

“Tristan McLane,” Margery muttered darkly, “Tell me you weren’t trying to sneak away, boy? You know what we ought to do in case of an animal escape.”

Tristan bowed his head, and couldn’t meet her eyes. She sighed.

“’Becca,” Margery called, “Would you please escort Mr. McLane back to the Main Building? And, please, stay there yourself. I don’t want you walkin’ around this zoo alone.”

Rebecca nodded sharply, and she and Tristan quickly headed back the way they’d come.  

It took two hours, more or less, to gather everyone together. They found a trio of ladies in their nineties wondering around between the impala and gazelles, not the least bit concerned about what was going on. Water lay everywhere, coming up to their knees in some places, from the aquatic exhibit; many fish were lost that day, but thankfully, the dolphins, penguins, and seals all survived. In fact, the seals seemed to be having a ball, playing in the kiddy-pool, while several awed preteens gawked at them from a safe distance.  

Two more animals died; a zebra got eaten by a lion, and a pigeon was plucked out of the sky by an escaped vulture, scaring the crap out of Fatima. The poor thing nearly died of fright right then and there. Dean would’ve found it funny, had it not done the same to him.

Once they were sure they had everyone, they turned around to head back to the Main Building. Around the large signpost that marked the middle of the zoo, Dean spotted a familiar face; the baby gorilla from earlier. Allowing the others to continue on ahead, Dean wandered over.

“Hey little guy,” Dean said quietly, easing his way closer. The baby couldn’t’ve cared less, however; she’d found herself an over-turned popsicle stand, and didn’t have a care in the world at the moment.

Dean inched his way nearer, and when he was right next to the baby, plucked her off her perch with ease. The baby made a very upset sound, but Dean managed to silence her with a cherry-flavored popsicle.

Trying to think back to his days with Sammy as a kid, he cradled the baby in his arms, and started gently rocking her. It was honestly incredible, how human the hairy little face looked. Dean would never confess, under threat of death, just how intrigued and somewhat awed he was.

A light snore from behind them made the hair on the back of his neck stand up straight, and his body go stiff. The baby gorilla picked up on his body language, and went still as well.

Dean turned slowly, and came face-to-face with the leopard. It was lazing on a bench, stretched out casually in the afternoon sunlight. It was far bigger than Dean thought it had any right to be; and there was absolutely nothing between them, and the beast. 

It blinked an eye open, and gave him and the baby a cursory look. It seemed disinterested at best, and Dean knew that they fed the animals here regularly. Hopefully, he wasn’t hungry, and would just let Dean back away slowly without any trouble.

Suddenly, the baby in his arms squawked loudly. It had never seen a leopard in its young life before, but some instincts were just too deeply ingrained to be ignored. This baby knew what those spots meant, and it was very, _very_ scared. It clambered up Dean’s chest and clamped itself around his head with another panicked cry.

The leopard looked up, now very interested. Nothing got a predator’s attention like a sound of distress. It stood slowly, and lazily leaped off the bench.

Dean reached for the tazer-prod and held it up, pointing the business end at the cat. To its credit, it paused, considering. It raised its nose and sniffed the air, drawing in scents; trying to figure out whether Dean could actually fight it off or not.

Dean knew he didn’t have a prayer. His only hope was that the big cat decided he was not worth all the trouble. But judging from the way it was looking at them, they were not going to be that lucky.

He could imagine it clearly: Dean Winchester, hunter, exorcist, lady’s man, and world savior, eaten by a freaking leopard. He was never going to live that down when he got to the roadhouse in the sky (assuming that was where he was still headed).

Dean started to back up, hoping to get something – the signpost, maybe? – between him and the beast; but he was stopped by a sound like an angry chainsaw.

Dean froze yet again, and with the thought of ‘what now?’ glanced over his shoulder. But by the time his eyes made it to where he heard the sound, its owner was gone. Dean ducked just as a large, hulking black shape soared over his head, and collided with the leopard like a battering ram.

There was a blur of hisses, screeches, and yowls. The leopard lasted all of five seconds before deciding that no baby gorilla, no matter how appetizing, was worth this. 

It bolted down towards the aquatic exhibit, and the black shape, now recognizable as Mango the Momma Gorilla, chased him another few feet before stopping – just to make sure the message got through.

With a huff, she turned back toward Dean. Her eyes darted from him, to the limp tazer-prod in his hand, to her baby, who was now clinging to the top of Deans head, doing things to his hair he didn’t even want to think about.

Without much aplomb, she lumbered back over. As soon as her baby recognized her, she was off of Dean and in her momma’s arms. Mango pulled her baby close, prodding her and sniffing her for signs of damage.

After a few moments, she seemed satisfied with her daughter’s health, and returned her attention to Dean. Dean stood there frozen, unable to move, as she stepped forward to examine him. She met his eyes, and something like recognition flickered through them.

“Dean?” Sam appeared, jogging up the path from the Main Building. He skidded to a halt the moment he saw Mango, and moved to pluck his handgun from his belt. 

“It’s cool!” Dean said, raising his hand in a placating manner, “It’s cool! We’re good here.”

He turned to Mango, who was looking Sam up and down. Then, with another annoyed huff, she wondered back towards her enclosure.

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Okay, Tarzan. They’re sending in a helicopter with some special forces guys armed with enough tranq-darts for three zoos. We can hop on once they’re off, then get a quick medical examination, and go home.”

“Sounds…” Dean swallowed, trying not to think of helicopters, flying, and heights, “Great.”

Sam’s face softened into something sympathetic. He knew Dean’s view on flying well enough; the last time they were on an airplane, it nearly crashed, thanks to – you guessed it! – demons.

“Come on, man,” he said, “Look, before you know it, we’ll be back at Bobby’s, drinking a beer and laying low.”

Dean gave a world-heavy sigh; something everyone seemed to be doing a lot of lately.

“Alright,” he said, “Let’s get this over with.”

 


	8. Sugar, We're Going Down Swinging!

The outside world was a relief to see. Dean cussed and white-knuckled his way through the short helicopter ride, and would never admit how reassuring it was that Fatima wordlessly grabbed his hand and held it the whole time.

When they finally landed, he was off in a heartbeat, and barely refrained from falling to his knees to kiss the ground. Fatima got off slower, and Tristan McLane clambered off with a clumsy slip.

Margery, Sam, and the young teenage couple were still hauled up in the zoo. Dean had been reluctant to go first and leave Sam behind, but Fatima had come up to him and shyly admitted that she was terrified of flying.

With a little kid asking him to hold their hand through something scary, Dean couldn’t say no; though the smile Sam shot Fatima when Dean nervously buckled-up made him think that, maybe, it was the other way around.

He glanced around quickly, looking for a tan trench-coat and a messy mop of dark hair. He hadn’t seen Cas since they’d left him to deal with Hester, and his concern was reaching blood-pressure-raising levels. He dodged an EMT, then clambered up on top of a car to get a better look of the area.

A huge, brightly-colored crowd had gathered to see what all the excitement was about. The sound of raised conversations was deafening, and the smell of sweat and beer assaulted his nose.

His frown deepened. There were just too many people; he couldn’t see a thing.

The air swirled as the helicopter took off again, and it rose to once more shoot to the rescue.

“Do you see him?”

Dean looked down sharply to find Fatima staring at him worriedly.

“Huh?” Dean asked.

“Your friend from earlier. The one in the trench-coat? I don’t remember us bringing him in. Is he a cop too?”

“Uh…” Dean was distractedly scanning the crowd as he answered. “No, he’s actually a consultant. He just needs to get out more, so we dragged him down here with us.”

She frowned, then shrugged. “Anyway, have you spotted him?”

Dean sighed in aggravation, and got off the car. “No. And I’m worried.”

“Maybe he’ll come over with the others,” she suggested kindly.

_Or he’s dead_ , Dean’s treacherous brain whispered.

The helicopter reappeared from over the wall of the zoo, and the large crowds around them cheered. The noise was deafening, and it only made Dean’s heart beat faster. When you got down to it, loud cheers sounded a lot like screams.

Suddenly, Dean spotted him. It might have just been a trick of the light, but he didn’t stick around to find out. He dove through the crowd, colliding with people and throwing them out of his way; then raced about ten meters forward to where he’d seen the flash of tan, and ducked into an out-of-the-way alley.

And there stood Cas, leaning against a wall, hand clasped to his bleeding abdomen. He was injured, and exhausted, but alive.

Dean rushed to his side, and slipped a hand under Cas’s free arm, heaving him up so that he could lean on Dean. He wracked his brain for where he left his car – they could _not_ go to a hospital – and together, they slowly hobbled forward.

The huge crowds that surrounded them acted as a cover. No-one stopped to look at them twice, and if anyone was able to actually see what was happening, they were apathetic enough to leave them be.

Dean finally reached Baby, but the crowd was now so thick, they could never drive away; not fast enough to get to an underground clinic, at least. Dean popped the back door, and settled Cas down gently.

“Hester?” Dean asked.

“Dead.”

Dean nodded sharply, and for Cas’s sake, pretended he didn’t see how bloodshot his eyes were, or how he looked so hollowed-out and numb. Dean rescued his own first-aid kit from the trunk – not nearly as sophisticated as Bobby’s, but it’ll do – and got to work.

The impala, and its wards, provided some cover; but they needed to get back to the Scrapyard. Bobby was better at this than Dean was, and he’d be able to do much more to help Cas. But the Winchesters were the crowned kings of ‘make do with what you’ve got’. So, he knuckled down and did what he could.

The wound was deep, but as far as Dean could tell, it had torn through nothing but abdominal muscle. Blood had started to seep through onto the Velcro fabric of the blow-up bed, and Dean silently thanked the universe that his backseat wouldn’t stain.

Plucking a bottle of Dettol™, a wad of gauze, a needle, and a long thread from the kit, he gave Cas a slim piece of leather to bite down on, and started cleaning. He had some painkillers, but even all of them mixed together wouldn’t have an effect on the angel.

Cas’s breathing became much more labored as Dean slipped the needle through his skin again, and again, and again. Seven stitches were all the wound required, and once he was done, he cut the thread with a small pair of scissors and worked on the bleeding.

By the time Sam got to them, a good twenty minutes later, Dean had just started wrapping the wound as tight as possible. It was already bruising horrifically, and it stood out sharply against his clear, pale skin.

Dean had been so intent on his work, he hadn’t even noticed Cas’s chest. Clear, pristine, and unscarred; when did that happen? Dean thought back to their first meeting with Balthazar, and about the strange glow that had passed from him to Cas. That must’ve been it; there’d been no other time Cas could’ve been healed.

“How is he?” Sam asked, out of breath from bulldozing through the throngs of spectators.

“Well, he’ll live,” Dean sighed, and finished tying a tight knot on the bandages. Cas’s breathing was worryingly shallow, and tiny drops of blood dripped from his hands, where his fingernails had dug into the skin of his palm.

“We’ll stop by a pharmacy once we get away from this crowd,” Sam said, “Pick up a shelf of the heaviest over-the-counter stuff they’ve got.”

Dean nodded mutely, and with one last nervous look at Cas’s pale face, clambered into the driver’s seat.

Dean had never been one for road-rage; it was a waste of time, in his mind. But he swore that if the crowd didn’t start thinning somewhat in the next five minutes, he would start riding people over. As it is, he’d already given many jaywalkers some knocks, to ‘gently remind’ them that this was a _road,_ not a _sidewalk._  

It took another half-an-hour to be able to ride the speed-limit again, and Dean immediately started breaking it. Getting to a pharmacy was the only thing on his mind right then. He constantly had one ear cocked towards the backseat, listening for Cas’s breathing, praying that it would even out somewhat. It didn’t.

Once back at the motel, drugs in hand, they settled Cas on Sam’s bed, and made him chug enough painkillers to kill an entire cheerleading-squad. After that, Cas crashed, curled up slightly and stiff as a brick.

As Sam took the first shower, Dean switched on the TV. The New Orleans Zoo Escape, as it was being called, was on just about every channel. Cameras perched atop the heads of the crowd snapped videos of the helicopter Dean had ridden on earlier, still picking people up and depositing them on the safe side of the gate.

“Witnesses and employees report no casualties as of yet, but the law enforcement present at the scene are trying their best to get a more accurate reading of the situation…”

Dean flicked the TV back off again, and plopped down on his own bed. Anything that wasn’t sleep could wait a few more hours at least. He needed to be fresh, after all, if he was going to make it back to Bobby’s ASAP. There were hunters to collaborate with, battle-plans to draw up, plans-of-action to consider. Dean needed his beauty sleep.

Glancing right at Cas, he noticed that the angel had relaxed somewhat. Though his brow was still furrowed, his frown was gone, and the sweat on his skin had started to dry. As Dean watched, he mumbled something incoherently, and twitched in his sleep. He must’ve been having some pretty intense dreams; good ones, he hoped. Cloud-jumping, burger-eating, Balthazar-kissing dreams.

Dean frowned. That last thought had come out far _cattier_ than intended. It wasn’t like Dean had a problem with who Cas dated; even if it _was_ a douchebag. Balthazar had given them a helping hand, and he seemed to hold Cas to a higher esteem than most.

And Dean certainly didn’t have a problem with Cas dating a guy. Angels viewed gender differently than humans did, and even so, Dean knew plenty of good, honorable hunters who were gay. It was no big deal to him, even if he didn’t quite feel that way. So why the attitude?

Before he could ponder on it more, he heard the shower turn off. Dean sighed, and figured he might as well; it would be one less thing to do tomorrow morning.

With a pained mumble, he hauled himself back out of bed, and made his way to the bathroom. As he passed Cas’s bed, he noticed the angel had started to shiver. He figured he could spare a second to tuck him in. After all, he’d done a lot for them over the last two years.

And if Sam raised an eyebrow at it when he got out of the bathroom, then it was just Sam being a little shit, as always. That was all.

…

The drive back to Bobby’s took a full twenty-four hours, as they had to go slow for Cas’s injury. It needed cleaning twice a day, and at one point, re-stitching.

When they did finally pull up at the scrapyard, Bobby didn’t even give them a beer before he had their guts for garters.

_“What were you even doing at a zoo?!”_ He demanded, “And what was up with the animals? _Why can’t I send you boys anywhere without you idgits makin’ the news?”_

“Oh, come on,” Sam loyally defended, “It’s not our fault! We were cornered by Raphael’s men.”

Bobby sighed a deep, weary sigh, universally recognized as the ‘ _Why did I have kids?_ ’ sigh.

“A ‘right then, gimme the story.”

The explained arriving in New Orleans, the note, meeting Cas’s friends, and the zoo. It took them about a beer-and-a-half to get through the whole thing. All the while, Bobby nodded along, showing he was paying attention, while his hands went over Cas’s injury with his better first-aid kit. Cas just gritted his teeth and spoke only when spoken to. You didn’t need to be wearing glasses dipped in holy oil to know the guy was exhausted.

As soon as he was done with Cas, and had re-tied the wound, he snagged Dean’s glasses to look at what Sam and Dean had mentioned previously. The wings.

Watching his face when he realized what he was seeing was hilarious to Dean. His eyes bugged-out, showing the slightly-yellowed whites of his sclera. His jaw dropped, landing somewhere by his beer-belly, and he stayed completely frozen for a good few seconds.

Cas curled up slightly, clearly self-conscious, and Bobby knew better than to gawk too long.

“Nice,” he said, which sounded idiotic to his own ears, but Cas simply nodded and relaxed somewhat.

Bobby coughed, and got back to business. “So, Gabriel and Samael are our best bets?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, “Cassiel too, but we have less of an idea of how to find him. We know enough from Anna to at least try and find Samael, and Gabriel, _we_ have experience with. Raziel, though, freaked them out. I say we save him for last-pitch efforts, if we even wind up needing him.”

“Agreed,” Dean said, “And so, now comes the boring part.”

Sam shot Dean his best dry look, before turning to the state of Bobby’s house. “It looks like we might have some cleaning to do first, though.”

Dean perked up. “I’ll handle the cleaning. Physical labor and me are better friends than research and me. You guys get busy. And you,” He turned to Cas, who’d been making a valiant effort to fall asleep sitting up, “Get up to bed. You need some beauty sleep.”

Cas grumbled something to himself, but didn’t argue too loudly. He tried to stand on his own, but Dean wouldn’t hear of that, either. He slipped an arm around Cas’s middle, and helped him hobble to the nearest bedroom, which only _happened_ to be his own.

He didn’t see Bobby and Sam exchange a quiet look behind him, and that was probably for the best.

Meanwhile, outside the house, a stranger stood leaned up against a tree, chewing thoughtfully. What had initially been amusing had slowly become depressing.

It was like watching an old, tired bull, glare at the red flag; knowing that death waited on the other end, but that the pain had gone on for so long, he could no longer think of anything but getting it over with. He knew the outcome; he knew it would mean agony; but he could no longer bring himself to care.

It was time to up the ante a little.

…

Sam blinked wearily at the digital clock, watching it wink at him.  
**02:46** AM. He would’ve thrown it across the room, if he’d had the energy; but fortunately for the clock, it would live to taunt another day.

He was surrounded by empty mugs of coffee, beer bottles, and useless information. Pages and books of every size and shape lay scattered around his tired form; the only clear spot was his laptop’s keyboard, which had started to drift in and out of focus worryingly.

He had found many cases of murders over the last few months; there _was_ an apocalypse, in case anyone had forgotten. And many of them seemed to be someone getting their just-deserts; far too many of them, in fact.

Sam was at a loss. He could research till his fingers fell off, and he wouldn’t be any closer to Gabriel, if he even still lived. And unfortunately for them, it didn’t look like Bobby had had much luck with Samael either. At one point, he’d raced up to get a map of Europe, and had circled Scotland suspiciously; but if he had stumbled across a lead, he’d never shared it with the boys.

He moved one exhausted arm to rub at his eyes, and stared at the ceiling hopelessly. Sam’s mind had been running wild the last few days, thinking about the apocalypse coming back. Thinking about how many more would die; of Dean, screaming as he was dragged back to hell; of the few hunters they still had on their radar, like Tamara, Rufus Turner, Garth Fitzgerald the Fourth, and Sheriff Jody Mills being killed the same way Ash, Ellen and Jo had been.

That couldn’t happen. Not again. _Never_ again.   

But how could they stop it? Last time, the angels had played brother against brother. Once Dean and Sam were back together, they’d compared notes; they’d played back their phone conversations, and found out that what they’d said to one person wasn’t what the other had heard.

They’d both been sent into a frothing rage when they realized that. It took them a full hour to calm down enough to finish making plans; but at the very least, the hole that had grown between them had been rectified. Now that they knew the angels had purposefully manipulated their relationship, they could start fixing it, and stop blaming each-other.

And to think, Sam used to pray _daily._

Later on, he’d blame his crazy idea on exhaustion, caffeine overdose, and desperation. But Gabriel was an angel, wasn’t he? So, he would – theoretically – hear a prayer sent to him. whether he would answer, or even be alive to hear him; that was out of his hands. But whatever he could do to stop the apocalypse from returning; any risk, any batshit-crazy plan, got a fair shot.

He stood with a stretch, and looked around. To his credit, Dean hadn’t half-assed the cleaning job. The carpet had been vacuumed, the floor swept and mopped, the dishes washed, the tables wiped down, and Bobby’s books neatly ordered and stacked. As a result, finding a bit of sage incense, Dean’s ‘secret’ stash of candy, and a few candles wasn’t hard. If he was going to do this, he would do it properly, God-damnit.

The only light came from his laptop and the desk lamp, but it was more than enough to see by. He sat by the lounge table, and the smell of old furniture, cheap beer, and disinfectant were quickly replaced by the sage. He set three candles in a triangle shape around the incense, and set the snickers bars and chocolate eclairs in front of it. Maybe it would help? He didn’t know.

His prayer was short and to-the-point.

_‘Dear Gabriel, who art may be either dead or doing something immoral…’_ That sucked. If he had the energy, he’d punch himself in the face _. ‘We’re in need of help. Raphael intends to restart the apocalypse, and that is something we’re doing our best to avoid at all costs. You fought with us once before, and we were hoping you’d do so again. We would-’_ Sam paused. Was he really going to give the archangel an out? _‘We would understand if you believed you’ve done enough. You, most likely, died for us. But for the sake of humanity, we have to ask anyway.’_ Sam hesitated, then added, _‘Please?’_

After a few minutes, he peaked an eye open. The incense was slowly burning away, as were the candles, and the candy lay untouched.

Sam sighed, and stood. Perhaps Gabriel _was_ dead, and the rumors were just that – rumors. Or maybe he figured he’d done his part for humanity. That was fair.

He wondered up to bed, not bothering to put out the candles. Burning the house down might not get him into Bobby’s good graces, but Sam was just too tired to care.

He wasn’t awake enough to notice the candles blow out all on their own, or notice the candy disappearing. But he did notice that, for the first time in a long time, he slept soundly through most of the night.

…

_The dark night and chilly breeze that came with the fall months blew over the baked earth. This part of the world was generally warm – hellishly hot, actually – but what most people didn’t know, was that deserts get cold at night. And although Texas wasn’t a proper desert (here at least), the logic still held true._

_From out of an apartment building, a man of roughly average height and weight stepped out into the night. He carried with him a duffle bag, and wore both a coat, and a hat to cover his face._

_He marched along with sure steps, turning corners and taking long strides down the empty streets. He passed many bars and other buildings that still flew the confederate flag, and although normally he’d give himself time to take pride in that, tonight he had somewhere to be._

_He slowed down when he reached the building he’d been walking to – not just because he’d reached his destination, but because he suddenly felt a little ill. But that didn’t matter; when he was done, he’d head home and make himself some chicken-noodle soup._

_He stopped outside the Planned Parenthood clinic, and paused to admire his previous handiwork. Words like ‘Baby Killers’ and ‘Satanists’ had been spray painted on the walls of the clinic, and although someone had half-heartedly tried to cover it up, they still stood out._

_Tonight, though, he was planning something different; something bigger. The consequences of this could be harsh, but he’d go through with it anyway. If he went down, he’d go down a martyr for his cause; like a_ true _patriot._

_He ducked around the side of the building, and knelt before one of the barred windows. He’d noticed the damaged grate earlier that day while protesting, and tonight, he was going to take advantage of it. Pulling a pair of bolt-cutters from the duffel bag, he got to work._

_He’d only going for five minutes when he felt his stomach turn. He’d nearly gotten the grate off; just a few more twists, and then he could rest. But he wasn’t able to finish._

_He barely had time to duck away from the window before he puked. For a full ten minutes, he knelt over the dirt patch next to the building, and threw out his guts. After he had nothing left, he managed to slow down somewhat, and only dry-heaved once or twice before he could stand again._

_“Crap,” he hissed, and immediately started kicking dirt over the vomit. Great. Just great. Now he’d contaminated the crime scene with his DNA, and he’d be much easier to find._

_But that didn’t matter now. He had a friend on the force who could help him cover up. But he’d been planning this gig for weeks, and he was not backing out now._

_He stood up straight, and stretched a bit to make sure his body still worked. His stomach ached, and his throat burned, and his joints were in agony. But nevertheless, he went onward. He could visit a doctor, or the local hospital, later. But he had to go through with this._

_Only a few more tugs got the grate free from the windows, and he threw a brick through it to open it up. After chucking his duffel bag inside, he began to clamber in himself. The bits of glass still in the window frame stung, but he pushed forward anyway._

_It was a much tighter fit than he thought it would be. Had his stomach swollen? Or had he just gained a lot of weight recently? Eventually, he collapsed on the tile floor inside the clinic. For a while he lay there, looking at the ceiling, trying to get his breath back. God, he was out of shape._

_When he tried to sit up, however, he found he couldn’t. His stomach_ had _swollen. And it was_ still _swelling. As he watched, horrified, his stomach grew, and grew, and grew; until he looked as if he was nine months pregnant._

_“Oh, Good Lord...” he whispered, and reached for his phone. He’d slipped it into his coat pocket before he left the apartment, hadn’t he? Yes, he did; thank goodness._

_He pulled it out, and started dialing. He’d be happy to take the vandalism charge if it meant he would live through- through whatever the hell this was. He just needed to get help._

_He hadn’t even managed to type 9-1-1 before a wet feeling suddenly appeared in his… well, in the last place he wanted to feel a wet feeling. For one, hysterical moment, he thought to himself ‘_ Did my water just break’ _?_

_He laughed hysterically, now fully panicking. Oh, God. What was happening to him? What- What was this? He was a good Christian and a proper patriot! He didn’t deserve this!_

_The pain came slowly at first, then picked up pace. After only a few moments, he was in pure, utter agony. It felt like something was trying to eat its way out of his gut. He screamed, no longer able to hold it in. Spots danced in his vision. His hands shook too hard for him to press ‘dial’._

_Right before his vision black out permanently, he saw the shadow of a man pass over him.  The smell of something sweet flooded his senses, and then he breathed no more._


	9. Phoenix

 

Sam jumped awake, heart in his throat and a cold sweat bathing his entire body. Light poured in from the open window, showing it was mid-morning. He sucked in a deep breath, and tried to make sense of what he’d just seen.

A vision? Again? No. Oh _, no._

But before he could truly panic, a familiar pain kicked in. his head ached monstrously, and his vision swam. Slowly, carefully, he climbed out of bed, and followed his nose to the kitchen; despite how the smell of bacon and pancakes was making him nauseous.

He used the wall as a support as he moved, inch by inch, to where the sound of voices and the smell of breakfast was guiding him. When he finally turned the corner, it took a few seconds for anyone to notice him.

Dean sat at the table, making himself a pancake-bacon-and-egg sandwich, and teaching Cas how to ‘properly’ apply syrup to his own pancakes. Bobby stood at the stove, expertly flipping more pancakes for his boys’ ravenous appetites, and wearing a ‘kiss the cook’ apron. The holy glasses were tucked carelessly on his brow.  

Cas looked better at least. His hair was a mess, his face was pale, and there were dark rings under his eyes, but he could bring himself to eat, and that was what was important.

“Hey, Sammy-” Dean noticed Sam’s condition, and went from playful to helicopter-parent in less than a heartbeat. “Woah, easy there, kiddo. Take a seat.”

Dean helped Sam to a chair next to Cas, and Bobby abandoned this stove long enough to grab some (probably illegal?) morphine from his back room. Cas looked at Sam with genuine concern.

“Sammy?” Dean asked, keeping his voice low, “What’s going on? What happened?”

Sam couldn’t speak. His head was pounding like a jack-hammer, and his lips were so dry, they felt glued together. The best he could manage was a small groan.

Five minutes later, Bobby had a drip of morphine in his arm (where did he even get this stuff?) and it was starting to work its magic. Slowly, the migraine faded to a dull, thick feeling, and he could breathe in the sweet, delicious smell of pancakes without having to swallow down last night’s dinner.

“You wanna tell us why you look like shit, kid?” Bobby asked gently.

“Vision,” Sam said, “Strong one. San Antonio, Texas. Planned Parenthood clinic. Look it up?”

Bobby blanched for a moment, then moved to his laptop. Dean gawked at him for a time longer, then said, “You didn’t tell me you were still getting visions, man.”

“This is the first,” Sam replied, “Since the apocalypse ended. And it was so vivid; even more than usual.”

They passed into a tense, concerned silence, only broken by Bobby a few minutes later.

“Hey, Sam,” he called, “Does a guy tryin’ to burn down a clinic and then dying weird sound right to you?”

“That’s the one,” Sam confirmed, “How’d he die?”

He already had a sneaking suspicion, and Bobby’s confirmation only made him more certain that last night hadn’t been a total waste.

“Um,” Bobby scanned the web page twice before daring to utter it aloud. “Childbirth. He died in childbirth.”

Cas looked simply intrigued, but the look on Dean’s face was well worth the migraine.

“Uh,” he said, _“What?”_

“Gabriel,” Sam explained, “It was him.”

“You’re sure?” Cas said, staring at Sam intently, “You’re absolutely certain?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “Definitely. He’s alive, and he’s in Texas.”

“Great,” Dean said, as he filled up a plate with bacon and eggs for Sam, “My _least_ favorite United State. When do we leave?”

…

The drive down to Texas was even more tense and frustrating than the last trip down south.

“Should’ve just stayed in Louisiana,” Dean grumbled unhappily as they stopped for gas, “Texas is just a hop, skip, and a jump away from Louisiana.”

Cas slept most of the way, and as a result, Dean kept the radio quiet. It was a blessing for Sam, who normally had to white-knuckle his way through these day-long journeys. As they drove, Sam did as much research on where they were going as he could.

“Dude,” he said at one point, “Some of this stuff is intense. Did you know that a fifteen-year-old girl who was trying to get an abortion got _shot_ a week ago? It barely even made the local news.”

“And that right there,” Dean said with a disgusted grimace, “Is reason number eight-hundred and forty-three why I _hate_ Texas. The people there are as close-minded as they’re taste in music is bad.”

Sam thought that was maybe a little harsh, but after checking through more news reports, he couldn’t find a leg to stand on. Racism, Islamophobia, xenophobia, homophobia, transphobia, sexism… Texas had them all in spades; topped off with awful music and some truly scarred history.   

They managed to find a nice motel just outside of San Antonio, with the cornfields going on for miles on one side, and the city on the other. It was a pretty place, Sam supposed, but it wasn’t the kind of place he’d like to live.

Cas was doing a little better every time he woke up. The perks of heavenly healing, he thought. He wondered for a moment what Cas thought of all this. The _‘HELL IS REAL’_ billboards and the church on every single corner. Did he think it was good; admirable, even? Or did he find it sad?

Before he could ask, Dean turned to him. “How far are we from that clinic, again?”

“Only a few blocks, really,” Sam answered, “We could probably walk there tomorrow, and leave the car safe back here.”

“Sounds good to me,” Dean said, hoisting their luggage out of the trunk.

Cas managed to climb out of the car alone, even though he gritted his teeth the whole way. After he made out of the car, he made a valiant effort of getting to the motel room alone; but Dean wasn’t having it. With a crabby lecture about keeping his wound still, he helped him to one of the two beds.

“Hey, Dean,” Sam called, “Did we get a second room?”

“What,” Dean asked, puzzled, then looked around. “Nah,” he said, noticing the issue, “Too expensive. We’ll use the blow-up mattress for yours truly. You get the other bed.”

Sam shrugged. Why not?

The sun was starting to set, and he decided to sit by the window and keep watch while Dean showered. He watched the sun slink below the horizon, while the wind blew the corn to-and-fro, looking like the waves on the sea. The pumpkins would start coming up soon, with Halloween right around the corner.

He didn’t even notice when he started to drift off, the golden-orange light slowly fading to red. The smell of fresh, cool air coming down from the north was heavenly, and the sound crickets chirping in the grass was like a lullaby. Despite the hard, wooden table he sat at, his tired eyes slowly closed.

With the light shining gently on his face, and the crickets singing in his ears, he fell asleep.

…

Sam didn’t know how the women here handled it.

As he and Dean made their way to the clinic the next day, they came across a crowd of maybe a hundred people, all clogging up the streets and making one hell of a noise. Anyone who wanted to get inside had to fight their way past. The police were there, but their attempts to keep the peace were half-hearted at best.

It took them forty-five minutes to get to the front door, and they had to do everything but pull a gun on the crowd to manage it. Once inside, they were met with a scowling woman of maybe fifty, with ginger-and-silver hair, and a pair of cat-eye glasses.

“If ya’ll are here to tell us we’re goin’ to hell, you can leave now. We’ve got the memo.”

“No,” Sam said, trying to catch his breath. He double checked his monkey suit to make sure he hadn’t lost his badge in the skirmish. “FBI Agent Sam Singer, and this is my partner, Agent Dean Walkman. We’re here about the death of a Mr. Andrew Jackson Smith?”

The old lady blinked in surprise, before looking a touch ashamed. “Ah, yes. The police said you’d come,” she coughed awkwardly, “Sorry.”

“Don’t even think twice about it, Ma’am,” Dean said, giving her a charming smile, “If you wouldn’t mind showing us where the body was found?”

She relaxed somewhat, and guided them through the clinic, giving them the tour. “This is the consultation area, where people can ask our physicians questions regarding sexuality, STDs, and safe sex practices. Over here is the employee’s lounge. They come here on their lunch-breaks; not all that big, compared to the rest of the place…”

Sam noticed that her accent faded a bit while she showed them around, drifting from strongly southern to something a bit more neutral. Before he could think to ask her about it, they got where they were going.

“…An’ this here’s the lab, where we do blood, STD, and pregnancy tests. This is where Mr. Smith tried to vandalize our clinic.”

Police tape covered the door, blocking it off. The place didn’t look too gruesome compared to most of the crime scenes the brothers visited. One window had been broken, with pieces of glass and, unbelievably, candy wrappers scattered around the floor. Sam and Dean shared a look.

“Has the body and his things already been moved?” Dean asked.

“Yup,” the lady confirmed, “Ya’ll are quick to get here, but we still got work to do. Sorry.”

“No, it’s perfect,” Sam said, “Best thing for it, really. Who found the body?”

She sighed. “That’d be Mabel. Poor thing. She’s only seventeen, y’know. Doing this volunteer work for extra credit, and to ‘broaden her horizons’. She opened up this morning at about six a.m.; came lookin’ for what smelt so damn awful. She’s at work right now; I’ll go get her. If ya’ll could wait for us at the employee’s lounge?”

They nodded understandingly, and went on ahead. As they walked back to the lounge, they passed a few people; one, a young girl no older than fourteen, with an unmistakably swollen belly. Another was an older woman walking with a young man. Then, a couple, who stood by the consultation room door, looking bored.

“So,” Sam asked, “What do you think?”

“About the case?” Dean asked, confused. “Well, we don’t have a lot to go on yet, do we? Though this definitely smells like Gabriel.”

“No, man,” Sam said, “About…this. This place, what it does, what it stands for?”

Dean hesitated just a moment more before speaking. “I think… that what they do here is important. I mean, it’s the woman’s choice what she wants to do with her body, or how much she can take. No one else ought to have a say; especially not someone who’ll never be in their position, like yours truly.”

Sam thought that was a pretty good answer; and he expected nothing less. Dean was a pretty maternal guy for someone who tried to be so macho, and he had a pretty unique view on death, from personal experience. On top of that, he and Sam had worked with many female hunters, and most of them had been the victims of some truly perverted monsters. To say anything less would’ve just been out of character.

Their companionable silence was broken by a young girl joining them. She had dark skin, with thick, ringleted hair and big brown eyes. This, Sam thought, must be Mabel.

“Hey,” he said sympathetically, “I’m Agent Sam Singer, and this is-”

“Agent Dean Walkman?” She said, “Mrs. Monroe already told me everything.”

Dean and Sam nodded, and sat down on the couch. Mabel took a seat across from them, and fiddled with a flask of coffee nervously.

“So,” Dean said gently, “Would you mind telling us what you saw?”

“Well,” She muttered, “I got in here at six this mornin’, like always. I used the keys Mrs. Munroe gave me to get in. This was pretty early, before most of the protesters got here. I thought it was a little weird that I didn’t see Mr. Smith out there, since he’s a pretty common fixture…”

She gave them the whole story; finding the body by the awful smell, noticing the huge, rounded stomach he had, and calling the police.

Once she was done, Dean and Sam thanked her, and asked for some privacy.

“So, Gabriel?” Sam asked.

“Definitely,” Dean replied, “An asshole protester against women’s health rights dies of _childbirth?_ And all those candy wrappers? It’s gotta be him.”

“Agreed,” Sam said, “But what now? Just wait for another death, so we can track him down? Wind up stuck in another TV Land scenario?”

Dean shuddered, understandably. Sam still had nightmares about ‘The Nutcracker’.

“What else can we do?” Dean asked, “Chances of him coming if we call are pretty low, and we have nothing else to go on.”

“Right,” Sam said. He debated telling Dean about the prayer, but decided against it.

“I’ll head to the morgue and check through his stuff and body for a clue. You mind going to check on Cas, maybe picking up some grub on the way?”

Dean brightened somewhat at the prospect of food and Cas, and that was that.

The morgue had nothing new to offer but nightmares. The official cause of death was internal hemorrhaging. The autopsy didn’t exactly yield a baby; just an unexplainable mass of tissue. Sam didn’t know what to make of any of it, and neither did the poor mortician.  

Sam wished, later on, that he had found something of note. It wound up being a monumental dead end. At the end of the day, all he had to go on was speculation and gut-instinct.

Sighing and stretching, he made his way to one of the beds, and was asleep before his head hit the pillow.


	10. Jet Pack Blues

Their next big break came the following morning.

Dean was munching on a cheeseburger on the same bed Cas, who was taking an afternoon nap, was curled up on. Sam sat by the window, toying with their equipment.

Suddenly, Cas sat upright.

“Hmm?” Dean asked.

“Something on the police scanner,” he said, yawning. “Down on the border. Attempted murder of illegal immigrants. Sounds like Gabriel.”

“You can hear that?” Sam asked, sharing an incredulous look with Dean.

“It’s all just waves,” Cas replied, gesturing vaguely into the air and stifling another yawn. He then plopped back down, rolled over, snuggled into the blanket, and went back to sleep.

Dean watched this with an unreadable look, swallowing hard. He was startled out of his frozen state by Sam throwing a bag of gear on the bed.

“Coming?”

…

It was roughly a four-hour drive from San Antonio to the Texas-Mexico border. Despite his still-sleepy state, Cas insisted on coming with. Dean tried to argue, but Cas was having none of it. Sam bit back the smile that crossed his face. The last person to argue with Dean like that had been Cassie Robinson; though he knew better than to point it out.

They made it there at around noon, and stepped out of the car to a barren landscape. The boiling horizon stretched out in every direction, with almost no noteworthy features in sight. On the eastern horizon, the wind churned up dust harshly, and swept Sam’s hair into his eyes. One single, solitary, dead tree stood to their left. The only thing Sam could smell was engine fumes and dust; and there wasn’t a sound to be heard.

“Are you sure we’re in the right place?” Sam asked Cas, confused. Cas nodded.

Sam looked around again, hoping to see something different; but nothing changed. The heat was starting to bake him alive, and the cracked, sun-charred ground stayed exactly as is. The only movement he saw was the clouds of dust floating far off. He resolved to keep an eye on the dust; the last thing he needed right now was to look like the sandman.

“Well,” he said, “Thoughts?”

When no one answered him, he turned to check what they were doing; only to find himself alone. No Dean; no Cas; no impala. Suddenly, the only interesting thing in the area was him.

“Guys?” He called, looking around wildly. Still, he saw nothing. Then, less certain, he called out, “…Gabriel?”

This time, there was an answer; but it didn’t come in the form Sam expected. A sound like thunder came from behind him, and he spun to find a monstrous cloud of desert sand rolling towards him like a tidal wave.

Perfect. No time like the present for a freak sand storm.

The sound of the wind howling like a banshee got louder, and Sam unfroze. He ran to the only piece of shelter in sight – the wizened old tree. He and Dean had both put on their monkey suits that morning for the case; and despite the heat, Sam was glad for it now.

He stripped off his jacket and tied the sleeves around the back of his head, forcing the back collar to rest over his nose and mouth. Then, he took his off his tie, tied one side to a branch, and wrapped the other around his fist. He’d heard horror stories about the kind of winds that came with a dust storm, and he did _not_ want to be blown away.

The wind reached him before the storm did, and Sam closed his eyes. His body tensed, and he rooted himself as close to the tree as he could. He braced for impact, and then…Nothing.

Nothing happened. He felt the wind blow past him, spilling his hair around his face in shiny waves; but no collision of sand moving fast enough to skin him alive. The sun was blocked out for a moment by the clouds of sand, and then it was back, right over his head. He could feel the baking heat from above, like a spotlight, and flinched.

The roar of the wind, and strangely enough, thunder, blocked out most sound; but Sam could pick up on something like music playing far away. His eyes were still shut tight, waiting for an impact, but his ears were uncovered. The wind became deafeningly loud, but as he listened, the music became louder still. Slowly, the lyrics became clear…

_“I never meant to be so bad to you!_   
_Something I swore that I would never do…”_

Sam’s eyes shot open, and were met with a boatload of swirling sand; but not close enough to hurt. Five feet in every direction around the tree, the sand swirled outward. It was as if he sat in the eye of a hurricane. And far in the distance, through the sand, a dull light blinked back at him.

_“…A look from you, and I would fall from grace!_   
_And that would wipe the smile right from my face…”_

That was where the music was coming from. Sam was certain of it. But the question was, would Sam trust Gabriel enough to brave the storm? The last few times they’d met, the trickster had been malicious and sociopathic. Sure, he’d had good reasons, misguided as they were. But how did he know this wouldn’t be equally frustrating and traumatic?

_“…Do you remember when we used to dance?_   
_And incidence arose from circumstance…”_

Sam sighed, the sound inaudible over the howl of the wind. Why else were they in Texas in the first place? Why else would he try to _pray?_ In the end, he didn’t have much of a choice; not in any way, shape, or form.

He untied his tie from around the tree, and pushed himself to his feet. Sand had climbed into his shoes, making his feet itch, but that was the least of his problems. He took as deep a breath as he dared with the sand all around, and took four long steps forward.

The sand didn’t _skin_ him, not exactly, but it still felt like a sandpaper shower. The wind became ten times stronger, tearing at his clothes and turning his hair into wasp’s nest. It took a lot longer than he would’ve liked to reach the light source; a large, one-story building with the light pouring out the windows; and by the time he’d successfully hiked over, his muscles were burning, and he was certain he’d lost a full layer of skin.  

It took about a minute of feeling his way around the outside of the building to find a door, and then a door handle. With what strength he had left after his strenuous march, he pushed the door open. It gave way shockingly easily, and he fell inside, along with a metric ton of sand. 

Immediately, the door shut behind him with a bang, and the tinkle of a tiny bell. The sound of the storm disappeared, muted by the thick walls, and left his ears ringing. The floor he’d fallen on was covered in polished, chessboard tiles, and the smell of pancakes and coffee greeted his nose.

Thoroughly confused, Sam tried to stagger to his feet, despite his body aching inside and out. he experimentally clicked his dry tongue. _How much sand had he eaten?_

He blinked his sore, bloodshot eyes at his surroundings, not quite understanding what he was seeing. Was he- was he in a _diner?_ And not just any diner, by the looks of it. A white, yellow, orange and black, nineteen-fifties-era diner right out of Grease; or some other movie of the time.

He spat out a mouthful of sand onto the ground, and tried to focus. The building was long, low and rectangular. The door he’d just fallen through was on one long side of the building, and you would have to walk in and turn left to get to the rest of it.

On the far wall, a jukebox played nineteen-twenties style swing music, mixed in with a bit of smooth jazz. To the left, along one long wall, four booths were lined up. Each had a window showing the storm outside, two seats opposite each-other, and a table with a checkered tablecloth. Along the right wall, was the kitchen, only visible through a rectangular hole in the wall. It looked as if that was where the waiters retrieved the food from to save time.

Sam could not possibly be more confused; but then again, this was Gabriel’s work. And speak of the devil…

Sam didn’t know how he hadn’t seen him before, but now he could. At the third booth from the door onward, was the archangel himself, wearing a studded, black leather jacket. His gold hair was smoothed back with enough grease to outfit a jerk-filled football team, and he chewed thoughtfully at a toothpick while reading the menu. He was very studiously ignoring the red-skinned, messy-haired, sand-caked sasquatch-of-a-hunter who’d just flown in.

Gabriel only acknowledged Sam when the hunter had managed to limp over to the booth.

“Sam-a-lam!” he greeted, looking Sam over with a raised eyebrow. “Really? _That’s_ what you’re wearing for our first date? And here I thought you _classy.”_

Sam…didn’t know how to react. One part of him wanted to punch Gabriel in the face. Another part wanted to laugh hysterically. And still _another_ part of him wanted to _live._

Instead of doing any of these things, he laid eyes on the soft, orange couch his side of the booth had to offer, and collapsed into it. Archangel or not, Gabriel could wait until Sam’s body stopped screaming.

A surprisingly fond chuckle came from Gabriel’s side of the booth. Sam heard him snap his fingers, and the strangest feeling washed over him. It was like when you stared into the camera lens as the flash went off; a moment of white blindness, then everything was back to normal; if a little wonky at first.

Sam sat up like he’d been prodded in the butt with something sharp. He turned to slowly look at Gabriel, who was wearing his best shit-eating grin.

“Gabriel,” he said slowly and calmly, “If I look down, and I’m dressed like Sandy, I’m going to stab you.”

Gabriel’s grin only got wider, so, against his better judgement, he looked down. Not only was he one-hundred percent sand-free (And _Hell_ , was that a good feeling), but he was wearing a loose, white shirt, a pair of soft, white-washed jeans and clean, brown hiking boots. He checked and, yes, he did have a red handkerchief in his back pocket.

A strange lightness around his face made him check himself in the window. Although his skin was still raw and his muscles still burned, he looked and felt a whole lot better. His hair had been pulled into a messy yet stylish ponytail, and he was completely cleanshaven.

“Huh,” He said, “Not bad. Do I want to know what you did to Dean and Cas?”

Gabriel’s grin suddenly turned wicked.

“Never mind,” Sam said, “I don’t want to know.”

“Oh, they’ll be fine,” Gabriel assured with a wave of the hand, “All three of you have bigger problems than lil’ ol’ me anyway. I just put them in their own, personal version of _‘Grease’._ ”

That brought Sam’s mind back to the situation at hand. Right. He needed help. But something else nagged at his brain.

“Where are we?” he asked, “What is this place?”

“Uh-uh.” Gabriel said, “First things first, Sammich. Order up.”

Sam looked down, and though there hadn’t been one before, there was now a menu in front of him. He sighed, and picked it up. Things went smoother with Gabriel when you went with the flow; he made his point faster that way.

A few of the orders were normal, but others were…less so. _Goat’s Blood Flambé? Pagan Pancakes? Eyeball Ice-cream?_

Before he could decide what the names meant, the sound of wheels on polished floors broke the silence.

Sam looked up to find Gabriel, in a fifties-era waitress getup (roller-skates included, though if Sam wasn’t mistaken, that was more eighties), standing at the table with a huge smile. A fake mole had been scribbled onto the side of his nose with a make-up brush, and he wore far too much blue eyeshadow. In his hands, he held a notepad and pen for jotting down orders.

“What can I getcha?” He asked, still smiling. Sam held his cool for a full three seconds before doubling over laughing. He couldn’t help it.

He didn’t even hear Gabriel rattle off his own order, as he was so preoccupied with regaining his composure. When he did, he turned to find both Gabriels watching him expectantly.

“Uh…I’ll just have a glass of water, thanks.” He said, wiping a tear from his eyes. He didn’t even know what about Gabriel dressed as a waitress was so funny, but he had much more trouble than he should’ve holding it together. It was probably just stress, he knew, but that didn’t stop it being strange.

When he glanced up at Gabriel – the one sitting across from him, not the one in the too-short skirt – he expected him to be offended. Instead, he was watching Sam with a fond, if puzzled look; as if he were a puppy whose behavior the archangel was trying to figure out.

“What?” He asked.

“How’d you do it?” He asked, leaning forward. Lightning struck outside, lighting them both up with harsh white light. Then, it was gone again, seeming to leave the diner darker. “How’d you actually manage to grapple control of your body back from the devil? How…did you _actually_ pull it off?”

Sam’s humor faded as quickly as it had come. He paused for a moment to think, then replied. “You’re going to think it’s cheesier than this diner.”

“Nothing is cheesier than this diner, kid,” he said, uncharacteristically serious. “And you’re avoiding the question.”

Sam hesitated a moment longer, before saying, “First, you have to tell me where we are.”

Gabriel grinned. “I’ll give you a hint: it’s not Earth.”

Sam’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Yeah, you’re gonna have to be a little more specific than that.”

Gabriel smiled again, and explained himself. “After our tango at the hotel, I realized that to fake my death in front of Lucifer, it would take a lot more than cheap hocus-pocus. So, I sacrificed roughly four-sevenths of my grace; I let him kill just over half of me. As a result, to show up on Earth now, in my weakened state, could be legitimate suicide. To cut a long story short, yours truly has been hiding between dimensions, not too far off from the Seelie World – a place that exists between Heaven and Earth. A place that can only be reached through natural disasters, like in ‘The Wizard of Oz’.”

Sam thought about this for a moment. “So that sandstorm outside. That wasn’t just you being a dick?”

“No,” Gabriel replied tartly, “That was me throwing you a way over to this place; this tiny, inter-dimensional safehouse.”

“Huh,” Sam said, which was probably an incredibly underwhelming response. Truthfully, he was doing his best to contain all the questions that had jumped into his head. His inner nerd, as Dean called it, was _dying_ for more answers. But he could get them later, when he had what he needed.

“Your turn, Samsquatch,” Gabriel said, leaning backwards casually, “How’d you hand Satan’s ass back to him on a platinum platter?”

Sam sighed, and risked a moment to decide how he was going to phrase it. “Dean,” he said at last, “I couldn’t bring myself to hurt Dean; destiny or no.”

Gabriel waited. And waited. Then, he said: “That’s it? _That’s all?”_

“Yeah,” Sam said, “I mean, I could spout some bullshit about saving the world, or some kind of epiphany, but honestly? Dean _raised_ me. He’s my big brother. At the end of the day, I just…couldn’t let him down again.”

Gabriel’s face became unreadable. He stared at Sam with kind of intensity that reminded Sam of Cas; like he wasn’t looking at _Sam_ , but at his _soul_. This went on for long enough that Sam started to fidget with the hem of his shirt, as nervous as the day he first interviewed for his Stanford scholarship.

They were interrupted by Gabriel – the waitress – returning with their food.

“One _‘Eyeball-Ice-cream Sundae’_ , two _‘Sugary Sweet-Shakes’_ , one _‘All-nighter Apple Pie’_ , three plates of our famous ‘ _Pagan Pancakes’_ , and one _‘Tongue-Twister Tart’_. And for you, big boy…”

He turned back to Sam, who’d paled at the sight of the desserts Gabriel had accumulated. The waitress set what looked suspiciously like the _‘Sad Psychic Breakfast-Special’_ and the _‘Demon-Blood Decaf Delight’_ in front of him.

“Uh,” he said, “Didn’t I order a glass of water?”

“Ya sure did, sweetie,” the waitress said in a high-pitched voice, “But that was lame, so you get this instead.” With a saucy wink, and a sway of his hips, he was gone again.

Tentatively, as one might pick up a vat of toxic waste, Sam lifted the coffee. It actually smelled really good, but that could also be a bad thing.

Gabriel was still staring at him with intense golden eyes, making him more and more agitated. In an effort to break the suddenly tense air around them, Sam coughed pointedly and said, “Please tell me there’s not any actual demon blood in this. I’m sober, and I’d like to stay that way.”

That seemed to shock Gabriel out of his reverie. “Oh. Uh, yeah. Decaf, remember? It’s synthetic, though the taste is similar.”

Sam risked a small sip. Just as Gabriel said, it tasted a lot like demon blood. Like something he could drink forever and ever and never get bored of tasting. But he never got the same buzz through his veins, the same immediate rush of confidence and power, that came with drinking demon blood.

He found himself humming pleasantly. He actually liked it; though that was a fact he’d keep far, far away from Dean.

The _‘Sad Psychic Breakfast Special’_ contained three pieces of toast, each with an egg on top of it, and arranged like a pyramid. The ‘third’ eye – the one at the top – had ketchup squirted on it in a way that made it look as if it was glowing. Two rashes of bacon had been settled in a frowny face underneath the toast, and French fries had been arranged around the plate to look like long, wild hair.

Sam couldn’t have been less amused if he tried.

Gabriel had eased back into his previous swagger; he plucked an eyeball off the top of his sundae, and popped it into his mouth like it was a cherry. Sam fought to keep his sudden wave of nausea in check. He had to remind himself sometimes that Gabriel wasn’t just an archangel; he was also a pagan god.

“So,” Sam said around a bite of (admittedly delicious) toast, “Can you help us take down Raphael?”

Gabriel huffed in amusement, his amber eyes twinkling. “Well, somebody never learnt how to beat around the bush.”

“I can beat around the bush,” Sam replied around his food, “I just don’t see a point in it.”

Gabriel’s smile became a little sadder. “No,” he said, “I can’t.”

Sam choked on his toast.

“What?” He asked, “Why not?”

Gabriel sighed, and shook his head slightly; though Sam couldn’t tell if it was in amusement or aggravation.

“Kiddo, I wasn’t joking when I said I sacrificed _four-sevenths_ of myself for the sake of humanity. You know about archangels having seven parts to their grace, I hope?” At Sam’s nod, he continued, “Well, those parts are each a concentrated mass of the seven heavenly virtues; all your typical archangel needs to be a sentient enforcer of God’s will.

“I ripped mine up and made seven ‘bundles’ of grace that are roughly normal-angel-sized. I used four of them thrown together to fake my death. Now I’m only three times more powerful than, say, Castiel. Which means Raphael, despite normally being less powerful than me, can now royally kick my ass; no exaggeration. No tricks.”

Sam tried not to let himself spiral into despair. Gabriel had been their best shot. Their only shot, really, unless they were betting on Bobby pulling a Samael-sized miracle out of his ass.

No longer hungry, he set his half-eaten toast back on his plate.

“Oh, don’t look so down, Champ.” Gabriel said, “You’re putting me off my pancakes. And if it’s any consolation, you’ve got Raphael running in just as many circles as you are now.”

Sam met his eyes, confused. “We do?”

“Oh, yeah.” The archangel continued, cutting up his tart. Shockingly enough, it was made of actual tongues. At this rate, Sam would never eat again. “Between keeping Heaven in check, worrying over his escaped prisoners, fretting over the few brothers he has left who could oppose him, and trying to wreck your little bucket brigade; the guy’s got barely enough time to _actually_ restart the apocalypse.”

Sam could’ve cried; he really could’ve. The breathy laugh he let out was just a bit too shaky as it was. “That’s the first piece of good news I’ve heard all month. Thank you.”

Sam’s sincerity took Gabriel by surprise. He looked at him, and most definitely did _not_ blush at the gratefulness in his eyes. He mumbled something Sam didn’t quite catch, and looked away hastily.

“Sorry, what was that?”

“Is there anything else?” Gabriel asked, eyes still averted.

“Um,” Sam considered, looking back towards the sky outside. The furls and twirls of sand were dark and hypnotic. He could hear the moan of the wind if he focused, but the diner must’ve been very well insulated. Lightning struck the ground (or what he assumed was the ground) again, and he was reminded of the hurricane that drove he and Dean to seek shelter in the Elysium Fields Hotel.

“Come with me,” he asked before he’d really thought about it.

“What?” Gabriel cried, looking at Sam with shock.

“Come with me,” Sam repeated, “Come help us keep humanity safe.”

Gabriel gawked at Sam, thoroughly stunned, then seemed to quietly weigh his options. Sam had expected him to blow him off with a wise-crack and an insult, but instead, the archangel sobered slightly. His eyes went to the diner; his safe place, where he’d come to lick his wounds. But he wasn’t as weak now as he was then.

“It’s a nice place,” Sam said, drawing his attention, “But it’s a crutch. You’re running and hiding again, just like you were when you met us. And I think you’re better than that.”

Gabriel had paled over the course of Sam’s speech. His eyes had that intense look again, and Sam felt every hair on his body stand up straight. It was as if merely focusing on Sam had enough power to light the hunter on fire. The diner seemed to darken significantly, as if mirroring Gabriel’s thoughts.

Gabriel was a pagan god, and he acted like one; but he was also an angelic atomic bomb, even in his weakened state. The contrast was enough to give him whiplash.

“Why?” he asked quietly, “I tortured you and your brother, even if he doesn’t remember it. Why have faith in _me?_ ”  

“Because I’ve run from my problems before,” Sam replied gently, “I’ve done some pretty screwed up stuff in my life, thinking I was doing the right thing; starting the apocalypse being chief among those things. And yeah, you messed me up – I had nightmares for _weeks_ – but I’ve done worse to other people for less dire reasons.”

Gabriel remained silent for a long time. Despite his previous sacrifice, Sam didn’t know what he was going to do. After a time, he gave Sam a smile – a real, genuine, heartfelt smile that looked both wrong and right on his face.

“Good talk, Sam. Give Dean-o and my baby bro my love.”

With a snap of his fingers, Sam’s vision went blank.

 

 


	11. Rat-a-tat-tat!

 

Bobby Singer sighed deeply over his map of Europe. His eyes burned from the exertion of studying for hours on end. His normally neat living room was covered in maps, pages of detailed analysis, books on theology, and several notes Cas gave him on angels.

He picked up his empty mug and went to fill it with more coffee; assuming he had any left. His exhaustion was starting to get to him. He was not the twenty-five-year-old hunter he once was, and he didn’t have Rufus to call him out on his bad habits anymore; and at his ripe old age, he felt it.

Just as he got to the kitchen, one of his five phones started to ring. “Balls,” he muttered, plucking it up off the wall without much enthusiasm. “Agent Willis. What time in the _fuckin’_ morning do you call this?”

It was – he checked the time – **03:04** AM, damnit!

_“Well, hello to you too, Beautiful.”_

Bobby was suddenly very awake, no caffeine-overdose needed. He’d know that arrogant, pompous British accent anywhere.

“The hell do you think you’re doing,” he hissed into the phone, “Calling ‘round here?”

 _“Nuh-uh,”_ Crowley replied, sounding amused. _“I talk first. What are you wearing?”_

“I am not nearly drunk enough for you to pull that,” Bobby growled, “What. Do. You. Want?”

 _“So unfriendly,”_ Crowley chastised, _“Really Robert, would it truly offend your patriotic heart to learn some bloody manners?”_

Bobby hung up the phone. Muttering a long list of swear words, he lumbered back to the kitchen; not for a coffee, like he’d intended, but for a stiff drink. All of a sudden, he needed one.

He was only half surprised when he found the demon in question leaning against his kitchen counter. Despite the danger, Bobby thoroughly ignored him, instead marching towards his liquor cabinet. He pulled out a glass, and filled it about half-way with whiskey sour.

“Not going to offer me anything?” Crowley asked, revoltingly casual. “And here I thought we were friends, Robert.”

“Bite me.” Was Bobby’s only response, and he marched back to the living room (which also doubled as a study of sorts). When he made it back to his desk, Cowley was already there, sitting in his chair. He wore one of his favorite Italian suits, all in black, with a finely patterned silk tie. Bobby did his best not to feel under-dressed in his own home.

To only further his indignation, Crowley was skim-reading his research, tutting disapprovingly. “Robert, you know it’s bad business to back out of a deal.”

Bobby walked right past him to the other side of the room, and grabbed a spray bottle of holy water Dean had gotten him one Christmas as a joke. An anti-possession mark was pasted onto it, along with the words ‘Demon-Away!’

When he turned back to his desk, Crowley had moved yet again, and was reading a bundle of notes that had come from Cas. Bobby was about to use the spray bottle, but the look on Crowley’s face made him stop.

His shoulders were tense, and his face was stone. Gone was the careless swagger from earlier; now he looked downright shaken.

Bobby approached cautiously, knowing that he was playing with fire. After all, this was the King of Hell.

“Hunting for archangels, are we?” Crowley asked, voice smooth and cavalier as always, but face unchanged. “And here I thought you were the _intelligent_ one.”

“An’ what business of it is yours?” Bobby asked, watching the demon’s face for tells with a gambler’s eye. “Why’d you care?”

All of a sudden, the strange look was gone, replaced with the businessman’s façade. He casually tossed the Enochian script-laden page over his shoulder. “I don’t,” he said, “ _Care._ And I also don’t suffer bad business lightly, Robert. Watch your step.”

With that last warning, Crowley disappeared. The only trace he’d ever been there was the sting of sulfur in the air. Bobby’s brow furrowed. He probably should’ve been more focused on the threat, but he dismissed that almost immediately. He’d been threatened before. _That_ was nothing.

But what had happened when Crowley had seen the archangel research?

Bobby knelt and picked up the discarded page. The Enochian script was familiar – Bobby wasn’t fluent, but he was damn conversational – and this page was on a specific archangel. Samael.

Bobby picked up the map he was studying earlier, and glared at Scotland with enough hatred to set a man on fire. He was missing something; the kind of thing he’d kick himself over later, he knew. _But what was it?_

…

_“Son of a bitch!”_

Sam jumped awake, flinching in the harsh afternoon sunlight. He lay nestled up against a tree, head lying at an awkward angle, buried uncomfortably in about a foot of sand. The wind still blew strongly, stinging his eyes, but the storm had obviously passed

A few feet to his left, the impala had reappeared, and on the hood, in a classic stargazing pose, lay Dean and Cas. Dean hopped off his car, swearing like a plastered sailor, and Sam thought carefully for a moment about whether or not any psychedelics were slipped into his _‘Demon Blood Decaf Delight’._

Dean wore a cheap, blonde wig pulled back into a ponytail, a pink necktie, and a similarly pink polka-dot dress. A pair of shiny black shoes and knee-high socks finished off the ensemble beautifully.

As Sam watched, Dean ripped the wig off and threw it to the ground, before kicking it into the sand for good measure. Cas slipped off the hood much more calmly, quietly puzzled. He wore a sleek, black leather jacket, with matching dark jeans and combat boots. His hair was smoothed back, not unlike Gabriel’s was, with only one Clark Kent-style curl sweeping over his forehead. With all the black clothing, his blue eyes popped right out, almost seeming to glow.

“I cannot _believe_ this!” Dean screamed, huffing and puffing from his tirade.

With some difficulty, Sam stood up, dusting his monkey suit off as much as possible. What had happened to his other outfit? Had his visit with Gabriel been a dream? It wouldn’t surprise him. That _was_ Gabriel’s preferred way of sending messages. Still, his stomach felt full, and he felt shockingly well-rested.

Cas noticed Sam first. “Sam?” he greeted, “Where were you?”

Dean spun on his heel, still full of righteous indignation. He glared at Sam, but also looked somewhat relieved.

“I was talking to Gabriel,” Sam said, biting back a yawn, “We need to get home and talk.”

Dean sobered slightly, getting back to business. “Right. Come on.”

They all clambered into the car, but before Dean could even start the engine, a loud _‘BANG!’_ shook the whole impala.

All three of them jumped as if stunned, and clambered out again with less grace than they’d admit. Sam and Dean pulled their guns from their holsters, and Cas readied a blade.

They didn’t know what they were expecting; but it was not what they found. The body of a large man lay splayed over the terribly dented roof, bleeding and gasping for air.

 _“Gadreel?!”_ Sam asked, eyes comically wide. Cas’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline, and Dean’s face would’ve been funny, if the circumstances were different.

“Get him into the car!” Dean ordered, tucking away his handgun. Sam climbed onto the hood, and helped pull the angel off the roof. Gadreel hissed through gritted teeth, and as Sam pulled him to the ground, he made a soft sound of complaint.

It took a minute to get him into the back seat. Without thinking, Sam clambered in after him, stripping off his jacket to put pressure to the harshest wound he could see – a deep cut to his left side.

Cas and Dean climbed into the front, and Dean started the car. He didn’t take his foot off the floor till they got to a hotel.

…

The first hotel they found was in the middle of nowhere. It was one of those two-hundred-people towns with three-and-a-half churches and no Starbucks; which was just their luck, really.

The only motel in town was also right next to a convent. No less than five nuns stopped to stare when the beaten-up, dust-covered, severely dented classic car pulled into the tiny parking lot.

Dean and Cas clambered out first, and helped Sam get Gadreel out the back seat. As the former two each took a side of the surprisingly heavy angel, Sam turned to smile reassuringly at the nuns (though it probably only made things worse).

“Bachelor party,” Sam coughed out, “Guy’s still pretty plastered. Have a good day, uh…God bless?” Sam grabbed the first-aid kit and bolted into the room, pretending he didn’t see one of the nuns make a cross sign in his direction, and another pull out a cellphone.

The room was cheaply decorated in shades of blue and green, and only had one bed. By the time Sam got inside, Gadreel had been gently set on the pillows, which cradled his huge frame awkwardly. The bleeding had stemmed somewhat in the car, after Cas expended _a lot_ of energy healing what he could.

He confirmed that an angel blade had caused the other angel’s injuries, and although he could stop the bleeding, he couldn’t heal it entirely. Sam removed his jacket from Gadreel’s injured side to get a good look at the wound, and to assess the rest of his condition.

Gadreel was in a bad place. The angel was pale, drawn, and dazed. His eyes focused on nothing, and his lips opened and closed quickly, though Sam heard no sound.

Other than the obvious injury Sam had already noticed, he had few others. When Sam pressed his careful, well-practiced fingertips to the back of Gadreel’s lower ribs, he flinched hard. They were bruised, most likely; maybe a concussion from the look of his eyes. But nothing else that Sam could see.

Cas found the small futon that came with the room, and lay down on it hard. He was exhausted, and Sam could hear his stomach growling from across the room. Now that he was once more cut off from the Heavenly Host, Cas had to recuperate from using his gifts the human way – food, sleep, and aspirin. _Lots_ of aspirin. 

Dean came careening back inside the room after locking down the car with a long string of loud swear words.

“ _Son of a bitch!_ Can you believe one of those nuns screamed when she saw me? As if none of them have ever seen a man in a dress before!” He tutted, and knelt next to the angel. Sam rattled off his list of injuries, and Dean prepared what they had left in the kit.

“Did you,” Cas yawned, “Check his wings? Damage to the wings can be lethal.”

Sam plucked the spare set of holy-oiled glasses out of his breast pocket (he did _not_ remember putting those in this morning, but they were there now, and he wasn’t going to question a stroke of good luck). He slipped them onto his face, and blinked a few times to let his eyes adjust.

Before him, Gadreel glowed slightly, his halo weak, but present. His wings, long and sharp and silver, looked much better than when Sam had last seen them, as if he’d had time to relax and recuperate. They were splayed on either side of him, off the edge of the bed, and through a part of one wall.

(Cas had explained that here on Earth, they were non-corporeal; visible to some, but intangible, so they didn’t get in the way. In other places – Heaven, Hell, other dimensions – they were fully real. It was an adjustment each and every time.)

“They don’t look any worse than when we saw him last,” he reported, and Dean gave a small sigh of relief.

“That’s good, at least. Then all we really have to worry about is this,” he gestured to the injury, which he’d already begun to clean with Dettol™. “Dude, I think he needs a blood transfusion. And you and I don’t have the blood for it.”

Sam though for a moment, brow furrowed. “Pros and cons of going to a hospital?”

“You do remember we’re wanted for bank robbery, grave desecration, murder, and arson, right?” Dean asked sarcastically, while prepping a needle and thread. “Plus, Raphael’s guys will be on us in a heartbeat.”

Sam was stumped. He supposed that all they could do was pray that Gadreel was strong enough to make it without more blood.

“A-positive.” Cas said, getting both their attention.

“What?” Dean asked the nearly-asleep angel.

“A-positive.” Cas repeated, even groggier. “Gadreel’s body. Your blood is A-positive, too.”

Dean gave a little, surprised chuckle at that; Sam shook his head and rolled up his left shirt-sleeve. He exchanged a quick nod with Dean before rubbing a bit of antiseptic onto the crook of his arm, and holding it out for Dean to insert a needle.

It was going to be a long night.

…

Precisely half-an-hour later, a knock came from the front door.

Sam picked his head up from where he’d been sleeping – on the inflatable mattress, next to the bed. Dean sat at the small table and rickety chair provided with the room, taking first watch. A portable chalkboard hung next to him, with an angel-banishing sigil already painted on in a few smears of Dean’s blood.

His older brother gave him a quick ‘I got this’ nod, and headed to the door. Sam didn’t really hear the words exchanged (though he very clearly heard that they were the police), but he could tell it wasn’t good. Dean spoke calmly, placatingly, and explained their story.

Sam didn’t know what ‘the story’ was, but he could tell it was good – something about a party for their friend, who is soon to be married, that got a little out of control. No-one was hurt, though, and they’d be out of town by the next morning at the latest.

Dean was using his ‘big-brother’ voice, was freshly showered, and wore neat jeans and a white vest. Sam wasn’t all that surprised when the ruse actually worked. The cops wished him a good night, and left them be.

Without any more distractions, Sam put his head back down in his arms, and drifted off.

Dean sat down at the table heavily, tired all the way to his bones. It had been one hell of a day, no doubt about it. The next time Dean saw Gabriel, blood will be shed; even if Cas didn’t look half-bad in leather.

Speaking of Cas, Dean glanced over to see how he’d been doing. The angel was lazily splayed over the too-small couch as if he were completely safe. While awake, he was tense, stern, and serious, but while asleep, he had no worries.

He’d changed back into something more his style before passing out, and his trench-coat had been tucked over his sleeping form. He reminded Dean of the leopard at New Orleans Zoo, with his long, slim body, and casual lethality.

The tan trench-coat, painted in spots and specks of dried blood, cemented the imagery in Dean’s mind. The slow rise-and-fall of his chest was mesmerizing, and Dean couldn’t help but stare. He’d seen Cas fight, kill, and lay waste to his enemies in explosions of heavenly light; but right now?

Right now, he trusted Dean and Sam so much, he was willing to sleep mere feet from them, knowing they could do whatever they wanted to him while he was like that.

For some reason, Dean found that kind of touching. Despite his own issues with self-loathing, it felt pretty good to be the kind of guy who had an angel’s implicit trust and faith. It gave him more motivation to do good than his father’s scathing remarks and judgement ever had.

The sun had been setting when they’d pulled into town, and now, it was completely dark. The sound of chatter from the bar across the street filtered through the air and in the window, mingling with the far-off howl of coyotes and the friendly chirp of crickets.

Sighing to himself, Dean pulled out his knives, and started to re-sharpen them. He had to do something to keep himself busy till Cas’s watch, and the deeper introspection on his life he did, the more compromised his grip on his sanity became.

…

When Sam reopened his bleary eyes, early morning light was just filtering in through the window. Birds chirped and sang in the town’s one and only tree outside, and the smell of something sweet assaulted his nose.

He wrinkled his face in discomfort, and he could’ve sworn he heard someone huff in amusement. He rolled off the mattress with a tired grown, and ran a hand over his face to clear the cobwebs.

Cas sat at the table, blood-smeared chalkboard leaning on the wall right next to him. Dean had taken the futon, and was curled up on his stomach, with half his body hanging off the edge. Cas’s coat was tucked over him, which was kind of sweet, but did little to help. Unfortunately, no-one in the room at the moment was really built for small furniture.

Sam grabbed the edge of the bed and hauled himself onto his knees to check on Gadreel. The angel looked monumentally better; his cheeks were red with fresh, warm blood, and his breathing was deep and even. Sam doubted he would even need another wound-cleaning after the check-up he would have this morning.

Once he was awake enough to give his surroundings a proper once-over, he noticed Cas’s angry expression. If he weren’t an Angel of the Lord, Sam would say he was _pouting._

“Uh,” Sam groaned eloquently, “Did I…miss something?”

“Yes.” Cas said bitterly, “Check the kitchen.”

The ‘kitchen’ was basically just a table with a sink on the far side of the bed from where Sam lay. It sported a stool, a trash-can, and, apparently, an archangel.

Gabriel gave Sam a devilish smile that crinkled his amber eyes, and asked: “Sleep well?”

Sam couldn’t help the wide grin that crossed his face. “Gabriel? What made you change your mind?”

“Got bored,” he replied, which Sam knew was utter bullshit. He also knew better than to press the issue, though, so he let it slide.

Sam struggled to his feet, and wandered over to the futon. All it took was a knock with the pillow Dean had claimed during the night, and the older hunter snored himself awake.

He sat up quickly, even more out of it than Sam had been. His hair looked like a stoned hedgehog, and in his vest and jeans, he could’ve passed for a very clean homeless drug-addict who’d just OD’d. 

“Wha-?” he mumbled, then caught sight of Gabriel chilling in the kitchen. With a wild cry, Dean hopped out of bed and tried to charge Gabriel with the knife he had tucked under his pillow. He tripped over Cas’s feet about halfway there, and wound up splayed on the floor a good few feet from the archangel.

“Forgive him,” Sam said, looking too tired for this shit, “He’s not very good at this until he’s had a cup of coffee.”

“I cannot _believe_ you noobs _actually_ saved the world,” Gabriel muttered with a bewildered shake of his head.

“Some days,” Sam replied, watching his brother stumble to his feet with a fond look on his face. “Neither can I.”

 _“What the hell?!”_   Dean demanded, glaring at Gabriel. “Who do you think you are, just waltzing up here, after that shit you pulled out in the desert?”

“Dean!” Sam interrupted before Gabriel could reply, which was probably the best thing he could’ve done. “Let’s talk about this after we’ve had coffee, breakfast, and have gotten up to speed. We have bigger issues, remember?”

Dean grumbled, but with a final mean look in the archangel’s direction, he stomped towards the tiny bathroom to freshen up.

Half-an-hour later, the two humans present had showered and changed, and felt a bit more alive. Castiel could just _‘poof!’_ himself clean, much to Dean’s chagrin, and there wasn’t much they had to do for Gadreel.

During the night, Gabriel had slipped in and healed both angels, which was the only reason Cas hadn’t smited (smote?) him the moment he appeared. Gadreel was absolutely fine; Gabriel had just put him in a mild coma so that he could recover mentally as well as physically. With a snap of his fingers, Gadreel’s grey-green eyes shot open. He tried to sit up too fast at first, and it took some doing to convince him to take it slow.

This was how the only café in town found themselves serving five very unique patrons, at seven in the morning, on a Sunday. Most people were at church; in fact, all of them were, except for the diner owner himself.

Sam explained his conversation with Gabriel in the inter-dimensional diner, and Cas explained their ‘Grease’ parody while Dean grumbled obscene insults in the background.

Gadreel seemed to find all of this tiring and unamusing, and looked very much like he’d rather be anywhere but here. The look only got stronger when Castiel asked him what had happened.

“We were hiding out near Central Park,” Gadreel explained, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “We were tracked down by the huntress. We didn’t stand a chance.”

“ _’The huntress?’_ ” Sam asked, confused. Dean seemed equally lost.

“Imogen. She’s like Gadreel,” Gabriel explained around a lollipop. “She is an angel made for a specific purpose; to hunt down those who escape Heaven’s jail, and to hunt other abominations as well. Nephilim, for instance, she _really_ has it out for.”

Gadreel’s eyes darkened, and he looked as if the life had been sucked out of his body. “Yes. She hunts them, rips out their hearts, and then sets them atop Raziel’s cell. The blood from the organs drip through the cracks, and onto his head. It is no wonder he went mad.”

Even Gabriel sobered slightly at that. For a second, no one had much to say at all.

“Worse yet,” Gadreel continued, “She has sided with Raphael. She respects power more than anything else, and he is the last archangel left in Heaven. Over and above that, you all have been added to her dead-pool. As soon as she is done with me, she will come for you.”

“What about Balthazar?” Cas asked, concern coloring his voice, “Anna? Where are they?”

“We were ambushed,” Gadreel said, “There was no escape. We all fought, but there wasn’t much we could do. Balthazar teleported me to your location before she could take me. What happened to them after that, I know not. I’m sorry.”

Castiel hung his head, and Dean stopped eyeing the garlic bread long enough to grab his shoulder in sympathy. Gabriel snapped his fingers, and his lollipop disappeared. It was time for business, it seemed.

“First thing’s first,” he said, “We all need wards; and a lot of them. As someone who was around when Imogen was made, I can give you markings and script that will scramble her ability to track us.”

“Then that’s where we start,” Sam said, pulling a notebook and sharpie out of his laptop bag. He handed both to Gabriel, whose response was to roll his eyes, and place two fingers to Sam’s head.

A feeling like a heatwave rolled down his body, making him hiss in discomfort. After a moment, it passed, and Gabriel moved to Dean, Cas, and Gadreel. By the time their food arrived, they were all as invisible as they could get on a cosmic scale.

“I warded you against other angels as well,” he said to Gadreel and Castiel, explaining what he’d done. “Since you two are currently starring on ‘Heaven’s Most Wanted’. Do me a favor, and try not to break any bones. A split in the sigils I’ve burned onto your whole skeleton will render them useless, and you’ll pop up on the ‘runaway-detector’ upstairs.”

“Thank you,” Castiel said, and Gadreel gave him a grateful nod.

“So where to next?” Dean asked as they ate, “I mean, what can we do to stop Raphael? There has to be something.”

“Well…” Gadreel said thoughtfully, “If you can’t stop him yourselves, maybe you should simply make it impossible for him to do what he wants. Like with the lions in the zoo; you do not need to fight them if you can put a barrier between them and those they would make their prey.”

“So, don’t try to fight him,” Sam said, catching on, “Just cut off his options? Make it impossible to do what he wants to do, while staying out of his way?”

“Hmm,” Gabriel hummed thoughtfully, “That’s not a bad idea, actually. Since he can’t go back in time to reopen the cage, Raphael’s only method of starting the apocalypse is to either become as omniscient as Dad, or to rebreak all of the seals; starting with Dean-o here going to Hell, and ending with the sacrifice of Hell’s monarch.”

“Crowley’s death, I’m on board with,” Dean interjected, “Me going back to Hell? Unlikely.”

Cas nodded in firm agreement.

“Sorry, chisel-chest,” Gabriel said around a mouth full of chocolate mousse, “You probably won’t get much of a choice. Even if your boyfriend there steps in, he’ll still getcha. He’s more powerful than anyone at this table.”

Dean looked like he was going to say something about the ‘boyfriend’ remark, but Sam once again interceded.

“Gabriel,” he said, “Since we’re trying to avoid the ‘rebreak the seals’ option, what other way could Raphael become God-like? I think going through the seals again isn’t something he’d want to do. Too many things could go wrong.”

Gabriel chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “If he absorbed a whole lot of souls into himself, he could manage. Touching a soul can act as a ‘super-charge’ for an angel. Taking one into yourself could double your power, and if Raphael could find enough souls, he could become strong enough to open the cage himself. It’s what I would do.”

“Where could he get that kind of fire-power?” Dean asked.

“Well, not Heaven,” Gabriel answered, still aggravatingly nonchalant. “If he took souls from there, then he’d be breaking one of Daddy’s big ‘no-nos’. It could cost him precious followers. But Purgatory and Hell have the kind of souls he’ll need.” 

“Purgatory’s real thing?” Sam asked, shocked (though he didn’t know why that kind of thing surprised him anymore).

“Yup,” Gabriel replied, popping the ‘p’. “It’s where monsters go when they die. There are enough souls there courtesy of _just_ you two to give Raphael the kind of juice he needs.”  

They all processed that for a second. Then, Gadreel spoke.

“And what of Hell? Could he get souls from there?”

“Doubtful,” Gabriel answered, “From what I’ve heard through the grapevine, Crowley doesn’t like to share power. Plus, no self-respecting demon would _willingly_ become an angel’s bitch. That just leaves Purgatory as a ‘most-likely’ option. But that would literally wreck the world in and of itself.”

“Why?” Dean asked, “Would it rip a whole in the fabric of space and time, or something? Like in _‘Back to the Future’?”_

“Not exactly,” Cas said, the only person at the table who managed not to roll his eyes. “The main inhabitants of Purgatory are the leviathans. They were a creature that ran rampant on Earth before the Flood, and were thankfully wiped out. If the door to Purgatory opens, the leviathans will escape. And then-”

“And then,” Gabriel interrupted, “You are going to _wish_ Raphael had simply restarted the Christian apocalypse.”

“Great,” Dean said, “Just perfect. We can do more research on that when we get back to Bobby’s. He’ll want to be caught up, and we’ll need to muster the hunters we have left for the fight to come.”

Dean gestured for the owner, who’d been in the kitchen and out of hearing, to bring him the bill. Sam, meanwhile, looked at Gadreel and Gabriel’s uncomfortable faces.

“Are you coming with us?” he asked them gently, trying not to sound judgmental of their answers.

For a moment, both were silent. They exchanged a quiet look, and seem to come to a mutual agreement.

“I have no ill will towards Raphael,” Gadreel said, eyes hard, “But I had a lot of love for Balthazar and Anabiel. I hadn’t known them long, but they were the first in many millennia to trust me. I cannot simply let their fates slide.”

“Well,” Gabriel said, “I’ve got no plans this weekend. Might as well overthrow a dictatorship. Emphasis on the _dick._ ”

Sam smiled at them both. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Gabriel said, “Let’s just get on the road. I’m sick of this joint.”

Sam had no problem with that, even if the thought of all five of them squeezed into the impala made him queasy. For the first time since he woke up in Bobby’s house, he had hope that they really would come out of this okay.

 


	12. Young Volcanoes

_Castiel stood on the mat in the middle of Bobby Singer’s living room. He didn’t know how he came to be there, nor why, but he didn’t particularly care at the moment. He just knew, deep down, that something was wrong._

_The air smelt burnt and crisp, and everything around him was soaked in grey ash. A misty haze clung to the air, reminding Castiel of the abandoned, deathly silence that followed a harsh forest fire. The sound of heavy, slow footsteps behind him made him turn around._

_“Dean?” he asked, seeing his friend’s face. But even as he spoke, he knew something was off. Dean wore a crisp, black ‘monkey suit’ as he called it, and his hair was combed neatly to the side. His face was fresh, and clean-shaven, with no bags under his eyes and no slight yellowing of his sclera. In his hand, he carried an angel blade, longer and sharper than any Castiel had held before._

_This was not Dean Winchester._

_“Hello, Castiel,” ‘Dean’ said, and Castiel would know that voice anywhere. Any angel would._

_“Michael,” Castiel said, something deep and fearful piercing his heart. “No. This isn’t possible.”_

_“I must say,” Michael continued on nonchalantly, “I’m impressed with you. Not many foot-soldiers can accomplish what you have. But you didn’t honestly think you would win, did you?”_

_Michael smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. The bright, lively green eyes that belonged to Dean. Even if the vessel fit like a glove, the sight of Michael inhabiting Dean’s body was just intrinsically_ wrong.

_“It is a pity, I suppose,” Michael continued, readying his blade, “He was in love with you, too.”_

_With that, he threw the sword, and it sliced through Castiel’s throat like a knife through warm butter._

_…_

Cas jumped awake, breathing hard. The unfamiliar movement underneath him jarred his senses for a moment, and his skin was soaked in a cold sweat.  

“Cas?” Dean’s voice nearly scared him out of his skin. He, Dean, and Gabriel sat in the back of the impala, while the two larger men – Sam and Gadreel – sat in the front.

Dean was looking at him with concern, his brow furrowed, but Gabriel was too busy blowing bubblegum bubbles to notice his little brother’s predicament. As he blew one up, it popped free of his mouth, and floated around the car’s interior. One blue bubble was trying to drift between Gadreel and Sam, and another purple one was just in front of Dean’s face.

“I’m fine,” Cas said, trying to control his breathing. What was that? What had he been dreaming about, anyway? The memory of it was vague and foggy, and he had trouble reconciling what had scared him so much.

Sam called from the front, as the car suddenly jolted to a stop. “Dean.”

His tone of voice was like a shot of caffeine right through Dean’s veins. That was the ‘we need to talk about the elephant in the room’ voice. The ‘Dean I’m scared what if the monsters come’ voice.

After following Sam’s gaze through the windshield, he climbed out of the car with all the speed and grace of a bulldozer. Cas quickly teleported out as well, and gazed upon the scene before them with horror.

Every tree within a kilometer of Bobby Singer’s home had been flattened. The house itself, was simply no more. A black stain on the ground was all that suggested a building had once stood there. The scrapyard was gone as well, leaving nothing more than a few nuts and bolts scattered about. It was an apocalyptic wasteland.

The smell of something having been annihilated practically attacked their noses; charred wood, charred flesh, and still-burning metal. There was no sound at all. No crickets, no birds, no branches for the wind to blow through. Over four decades worth of saving people, hunting things, libraries of information, and years of emotional growth…gone.  

“Bobby?!” Dean called, the shock choking his voice, _“BOBBY?!”_

“No,” Cas said trying to keep his voice calm. “Don’t scream, Dean. Angels could still be in the area.” He grabbed Dean’s shoulder, but was shaken off harshly. The hunter had his back to Cas, so the only visual indication of Dean’s distress he had was the deep, uneven breaths that made his shoulders shake.

Sam ran his hands through his hair, unable to speak. He tried to choke something out, but couldn’t manage much more than a sob. Gadreel looked lifeless, which seemed to be his neutral state, so Cas didn’t pay him much attention.

Gabriel’s face had gone pale. He saw, for the first time, what he was actually up against, and the consequences thereof. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t scared to death; but better this than the constant fear and the running. He thought to himself that seeing something like this might’ve changed his mind; but it didn’t. Despite his dawning horror, he was strangely calm. All the violence, all the unnecessary pain he saw; not just here, but throughout the years; it just strengthened his current resolve.

He’d been riding the grapevine for a long time, but he was in the game now. For the first time in millennia, Gabriel the Archangel had returned.

“We need to get out of here,” He said. Castiel and Gadreel, for all their independent streaks, fell into line at the sound of his voice. The Winchester brothers were another matter entirely.

Dean was breathing deeply, his entire body shaking, and Sam was a wreck. He looked like he was praying, really _praying_ , that he was having some kind of nightmare.

He gently touched Sam’s shoulder, and the kid flinched. In the blink of an eye, they were kilometers away from South Dakota, in Valentine, Nebraska. It was a place Gabriel had been eyeing for a while now, while not spying on the boys. It was, generally, a nice place; but there were assholes wherever you went.

It was raining hard when they appeared, the area around them wide and flat. The sudden cold water washing over their bodies brought Sam and Dean back to their senses, at least a little. Shoots of fresh grass were slowly climbing up from under the earth, and there was not an ounce of civilization in sight.

“Why the hell did you do that?” Dean demanded, “He could’ve been alive back there! We have to look for him. Take us back!”

“There was nothing there for you to save,” Castiel spoke quietly from his place in Dean’s personal bubble. “Even if Bobby is alive, he wouldn’t have just stayed there.”

“How’d they even get in?” Sam asked, voice still uneven, “Bobby’s warded to Hell and back; _literally._ There is no way anyone should’ve been able to find him.”

“You’re right,” Gadreel said, turning to Cas as he spoke. “Castiel, did you feel that? The energy around that place?”

Cas nodded. “Demons. Either one powerful one, or several smaller. It is likely them who broke the wards. After that, he was a sitting duck.”

“And Imogen,” Gabriel added, “I could definitely sense her presence as well.”

“Gabriel,” Sam pleaded, “Can you tell if Bobby’s alive or not?”

He thought for a moment, head cocked to the side in a strangely Cas-like way. “It would be easier if I knew him. And with Raphael running the show upstairs, I can’t just peak in whenever I want to. Sorry, kid.”

Sam’s legs felt shaky. He leaned back against the frame of the impala, no longer feeling steady on his own feet. It was happening. It was happening all over again. The apocalypse was coming back, and Sam was just going to have to get used to losing the few people he had left.

Thunder boomed overhead, almost deafening. The lightning that filled the sky only highlighted them for a moment, before leaving them in the early evening darkness.

Sam looked up at the sky just as lightning struck again, even closer.

“Shelter,” he said, swallowing his grief. He needed to focus. “We need to find shelter. Draw up battle plans without…” he took a deep, shaky breath. “Without help.”

Dean turned on Sam, looking like murder. “Come on, Dean,” Cas quietly urged, “We’re no help to Bobby as corpses.”

Dean brushed off Cas’s attempts at soothing his temper. He clambered back into the impala, slamming the door as he went. Sam sighed before following him, and all the angels simply appeared in the back seat, surprisingly complacent. Dean flicked on the windshield-wipers, eager to put his foot on the gas pedal and get out of the downpour.

As the rain was wiped from his line of sight, a figure became apparent in the distance. Dean squinted, trying to make it out; but he never got the chance.

A sharp intake of breath from one of the angels behind them was all the warning Dean got, before thunder and lightning knocked him right off his seat. He felt his eardrums blow; a sharp, searing hot pain in both ears, like a mini explosion. His eyes burned with the brightness, and for a moment, he was certain he’d just been killed. 

When he tried to blink his eyes open again, the whiteness nearly killed him. Unfortunately, he’d felt this before; back in the first gas station he’d come across after being brought back from Hell. It was pure, undiluted heavenly energy.

Dean barely managed an intake of breath before it all just became too much, and his senses faded into blissful darkness.

…

Sam was the first of the brothers to wake.

He came to slowly, blearily blinking his eyes open. He regretted it immediately; a bright, artificial light nearly blinded him. But it wasn’t as bad as the first time; Sam could somewhat remember a feeling like a hole being burned through his head. This was, thankfully, not _that._

It took several moments for him to be able to look around; and once he could, he wished he hadn’t. He was in a large room with plain, white walls. Three large windows on the far wall revealed the outside; a mass of corn waving in the howling winds, and thick, dark clouds, heavy with not-yet-fallen rain. Lightning struck, but no sound accompanied it.

He was being held on his knees by someone he couldn’t see, but who had a grip like iron. Sam looked right, and saw Dean being held up the same way he was, but still unconscious. The skin around his eyes was raw and peeling, and dried blood trickled out of his ears. Sam glanced to the left, and saw…well, just about everyone else.

Cas was kneeling on the ground, wrapped up in some kind of glowing, blue chains, etched with Enochian spell work. His trench coat, shirt, tie, socks and shoes were gone. His wings were visible despite the fact that Sam wasn’t wearing his glasses, and they were bent at an uncomfortable angle. The chains on his body were tied in such a way that the more he tried to move his limbs, the tighter the chain around his neck squeezed.

Behind Cas, two angels in pantsuits stood guard. Raphael’s men, definitely. Cas looked, for the most part, intact. Gadreel was in an identical position on Cas’s left, with a good four angels standing around his half-naked form.

On the far side of the room, Sam spotted Balthazar and Anna, stuck in the same kind of bondage, but being held up like Sam and Dean. They were in a much worse condition than the former two angels; bruised, bloody, and all around beaten-up. He doubted they could even keep themselves seated alone. Despite kneeling a good few meters away, they seemed to be quietly trying to tuck themselves behind Gadreel’s bowed body.

Next, Sam’s eye found Gabriel. The archangel was tied in three times as many chains as the others, and his wings were tied down behind him in yet more chains. There were three pairs of them, with the smallest being around Cas’s size, the middle set being Gadreel’s size, and the largest being unlike anything Sam had ever seen.

They gleamed with a golden, honey-like glow, like the sun at midday. His halo was blinding; it was almost too hard to look at directly. When Sam looked into the feathers and blinked quickly, he saw flashes of desert sands, tall-growing grain, and the gleam of precious metals hidden in veins beneath hard rock.   

It took some time to find any other people, with how the angels took up space. Bobby (who was alive, and in one piece, _thank God_ ) was being held by a single angel. He was bruised, with raw, bloodshot eyes and blood-stained ears; and thankfully, awake enough to be _pissed._

Next to him, kneeled an unexpected figure guarded by two angels. Black-eyed, spiky-skinned, and snarling harshly, was Meg Masters. What she had to do with any of this, Sam could only guess.

As he looked around, Sam’s head started to clear. He remembered the bright light, and a sound like a jet engine going off in his ears. His head still hurt like a bitch, and the grip on his shoulders (another angel, definitely) was going to leave some suspicious bruises. But at least they hadn’t killed him – yet.    

A set of slow, steady footsteps brought his mind to the present. A tall, African-American woman in a pinstripe business suit paced around them, analyzing them all with a cold gaze. From the way the other angels wouldn’t meet her eyes, and how she walked, tall and unhindered, Sam knew that she was the boss. He didn’t know who she was exactly, but he had a sneaking suspicion.

A set of wings almost indistinguishable from Gabriel’s in shape, but not in color, flared out behind her. They were seemingly every shade of green, and when Sam looked closer, he could see every forest Earth boasted reflected in the feathers.

“Sam?” Cas had looked up, and caught his eye. His face was tight with anxiety and worry.  

Gadreel looked up as well, following Cas’s line of sight Sam’s way. For the first time, Sam saw an emotion other than frustration or exhaustion on the angel’s face; fear. Gadreel was _terrified._

Sam wasn’t able to answer, as another person appeared in his view. A pair of snowy white wings, the tips dipped in red blood, swept out from the person’s back, at odds with the tiny frame. A familiar hijab and waitress’s uniform tickled something in the back of his mind. He knew this girl, he did, but around his migraine, it was hard to place her.  

“Good morning, officer,” She greeted in a sickly sweet voice, and Sam remembered.

“Fatima?” he asked, stomach turning in a variety of uncomfortable ways.

“No,” she said, slowly pacing around the captives. “She was a sweet child, and I could tell you liked her. But she’s not here anymore.”

The angel played with the almost knee-length, floral skirt, a match to her hijab. When she smiled, her teeth were sharp and metallic – no more colorful braces. Sam recognized the metal of an angel blade; and noticed that her fingernails, now more pointed, were also replaced with the deadly metal.

Her shoes were gone, showing gleaming, metallic toenails, filed like claws. Her bony body moved slowly and gracefully, brimming with power, and her wingspan matched Gadreel’s to a T.

Sam fought hard to keep his revulsion under control. That sweet little girl had been possessed for no other reason than she was kind to _them._ Honestly, that fit pretty well with the God-squad’s M.O.

Dean groaned from next to him, and blinked his pained eyes open. It clearly took him a moment to realize where he was, but when he did, he let off a list of swear words long and strong enough to fill a dictionary.

Raphael raised an eyebrow at Dean, snarling in disgust as he (she?) did so.

“Unbelievable,” he said, as the click-clack of his heels announced him stepping away. “How the flawed, sinful, and weak band together; huddling in the dark like cockroaches.”

He cast a glance at the ensembled criminals, rebels, and runaways. With a shake of his head, he turned and marched towards one open, plain wall.

“Well, you haven’t changed much. Really campaigning for ‘Asshole of the Year’, aren’t you?” Gabriel hissed from his place between no less than eight angels. Unlike with the others, the angels around him wisely kept a foot of distance around him. Sam was, personally, surprised he hadn’t been gagged yet.

“As reigning champion, are you nervous?” Raphael replied easily.

“How did you even find us?” Sam asked, pulling both archangels’ attention to him. Maybe if he stalled for long enough, he’d think of a plan. “We were warded with every sigil in the book. There’s _no way_ you could’ve known where we were.”

Raphael gave him a pitying look. “Perhaps, you should ask _Gabriel_ that question.”

Raphael snapped his fingers, and Gabriel arched backwards with a surprised yelp. Ancient script – Atlantean, mixed in with a pinch of Latin – blazed across his bare chest with a red light.

 _“What have you done?”_ Gabriel sounded sickened, panic writhing around in his ribcage. He was no longer in a joking mood.

“When you sided with the Winchesters, and faked your death, I thought I smelled a rat.” Raphael smiled unkindly, and stepped backwards to admire his work. “You had to abandon your vessel for a few moments, until Lucifer left the scene. I used the time… _productively._ Once the Winchesters had somehow ended the apocalypse, I knew it was only a matter of time before you would stumble across them again.”

Gabriel looked every inch the wrathful archangel he was. “You always were a _sick, paranoid bastard_. When I get out of these chains-”

“Oh, but you won’t,” Raphael interrupted harshly. “You will be moved to Raziel’s cell. He could use the company.” He leaned forward, as if to whisper, but Sam heard his words clearly. “ _You will never see daylight again._ ”  

Raphael moved on to Balthazar and Anna. “These two are useless to me as is. Imogen!” Fatima – Imogen, apparently – looked up eagerly. “These two are yours to play with. Balthazar has some information that I need on certain stolen artifacts; and I expect answers. Other than that, do as you will.”

Imogen beamed like a teacher’s pet being praised for her hard work. “Thank you, my Lord. They’ll look glorious draped on the roof of Gadreel’s cell, won’t they?”

Gadreel seemed to choke on a lung. His face contorted with terror and pain, whereas Anna and Balthazar could do nothing but freeze. Sam’s heart thundered in his chest; he needed to buy them more time. But how?

Dean hadn’t said a word yet; rare, for him. His eyes were locked on Fatima – the grotesque smile, the harpy-style claws, and the sadistic twinkle in her eyes. Something inside him seemed to die a little bit as he watched events play out. 

“You don’t want to do this, Raphael.” Gabriel warned, causing the younger archangel to pause. “Those leviathans in there will eat you – and more importantly, _me!_ – for _breakfast_.”

Raphael smiled slyly, and gestured to the two angels guarding Castiel. They each grabbed a shoulder, and hauled the fallen angel forward.

“Hey!” Dean called out, “Hey, what are you doing with him?”

The two angels didn’t even glance Dean’s way, opal-like wings tucked in close as they approached their boss. They gracelessly dropped Cas at Raphael’s feet, and the one on the left handed the archangel Castiel’s blade.

“The leviathans won’t be a threat for long.”

With that, Raphael began to carve.


	13. Immortals

Gabriel tore viciously at his chains, yanking hard enough to pull every muscle in his right, lower wing. The angels standing guard around him flinched and stumbled back, but to their credit, didn’t run. When you were a field mouse guarding a tied-up lion, a pinch of courage was required.

Gadreel, from where he kneeled, was able to break away his gaze from Anna and Balthazar long enough to hiss in sympathy. Balthazar himself wrenched forward with a cry, trying to aim for Cas, but Imogen stepped in front of him before he could move too far. Anna turned away, unable to look.

Even _Meg_ reacted. While Bobby winced, but mostly stayed quiet, Meg very nearly got loose. Demons, as a rule, were heartless creatures; but this particular demon had a soft spot for the broken little angel she’d snogged during the apocalypse. If anyone was going to pluck his feathers, it would be _her_ , damnit!

Two angels corralled her back, but for some odd reason, refrained from killing her. They needed her for some reason, Sam was sure, but what? He didn’t get too long to ponder; she was sat back down – hard – and his attention turned back to Cas.

He only held back a scream for the first two cuts. After that, it was just too much for him to bare. Even some of Raphael’s own shrunk back from the scream he let out – one of pure agony and pain. Imogen, to the contrary, looked gleefully fascinated.

“You SON OF A BITCH! Leave him _alone!_ ” Dean screamed, and even though it was to no avail, Sam tried to fight his own captor, too.

“You kiss your mother with that mouth, Winchester?” The angel holding Dean sneered, and Dean very nearly lunged for him. It was only by the grace of that angel’s iron grip that he didn’t lose any limbs.  

As Sam watched, Raphael finished carving, and stepped backwards to admire his work with a critical eye. “The leviathans will be drawn to the sigil on your chest, Castiel. They will all enter _you_ , and the bonding will hold them there. They will eat you alive, and then eat each-other in their hunger. In only a few hours, they will cease to exist. It is a kinder death than a traitor like _you_ deserves.”

If looks could kill, Raphael would have been murdered twice over by both Dean and Cas. Sam had to do a double take at the look on his brother’s face when Raphael turned away.

Dean had always been the one who looked like their mother; all bright eyes, soft smiles, freckled cheeks and soft hands. It was Sam who looked like their father; tan skin, dark hair, hard eyes and a pointed chin. But the pure, homicidal rage on Dean’s face was a perfect mirror to the boiling hate that kept John Winchester running for over two decades.

For a second, Sam was looking into the face of their father again.

He didn’t have time to ponder on the sudden resemblance between father and son, however. Raphael used a small bowl to collect the blood dripping from Cas’s wounds, and then began smearing it onto the wall. The shape was simple, but curvy – something to do with _opening;_ that was all Sam could make out.

“My Lord,” An unfamiliar angel stepped forward from out of Sam’s field of view. “The king has arrived.” Raphael, in a surprisingly human gesture, rolled his eyes.

“Send him in.”

A door behind Sam’s back opened, and the room seemed to darken. The slow, steady footsteps of a man completely at ease strode into the room. Stepping into the light, Crowley gave a cursory look around, taking in the ensembled faces with only the faintest interest.

“Crowley,” Bobby greeted with a growl in his voice. “Should’ve known you’d be the _one_ monarch of hell who’d willingly become an angel’s butt-buddy.”

“Robert,” Crowley greeted back sharply. “You’re just as charming as always. And here I thought you’d be smart enough to show your _new owner_ some _respect_.”

Bobby’s eyes burned, but he didn’t get a chance to continue the banter. “Enough.” Raphael commanded, “We have work to do. Did you bring what was needed?”

Crowley smiled wickedly, and gestured to the two demons he’d brought with him, standing stationary by the doorway. They stepped forward quickly, tense and uncomfortable. They carried between them a chest, carved from some kind of wood that had to be at least a thousand years old. With a snap of his fingers, the box opened, and Crowley proudly presented the gift to Raphael.

“The last traces of leviathan on this Earth. Essential to your spell, isn’t it?”

Raphael nodded curtly, and took the chest from the two demons with ease. He dipped his fingers inside, and drew out what looked like black spittle. It was stringy, and gooey, and despite having the same consistence as saliva, it reflected almost no light. Stepping over to Cas, he made three swift marks on the angel’s forehead, then stepped back again.

“Very well. Assuming all goes to plan, our bargain will stand. Jophiel, Namor, Esther?” As Raphael spoke, the three angels guarding Meg and Bobby dragged the prisoners forward, and handed them over to Crowley’s entourage. 

Raphael, after wiping the goo from his fingers, went back to finger-painting with Castiel’s blood, as if Crowley were not even there. Crowley stepped back respectfully, a gleam in his eyes that Sam hated with every fiber of his being.

He turned to see how Bobby was faring under all of this; maybe he had some kind of plan? The man was genius. If anyone could figure out how to stop this, he would.

Instead, he caught Balthazar’s eye. For someone who’d all but been sentenced to death, he looked strangely calm. Sam recognized the slightest twitch of his left shoulder, working with the chains behind him. _Was he picking the lock?_

The angels behind Balthazar had their eyes fixed on Crowley and Raphael. They didn’t seem aware of anything.

Sam quickly looked towards Dean, trying not to bring unnecessary attention to the blond angel. Dean looked absolutely feral, and Sam’s attempts to catch his eye were futile. With a huff, Sam hissed _“Dean!”_

“What?!” he snapped back, ignoring the hint to whisper.

“I think we’re desperate enough to play our _other card.”_

Dean’s face went blank with confusion, but all it took was a quick look from Sam for him to get it. Their almost telepathic knowledge of how the other thought was a decent perk of living and working together. It was time to _‘Road to El Dorado’_ this bitch.

 _“Don’t you freaking_ dare!” Dean snarled at Sam, eyes blazing.

“We don’t have much of a choice, do we? And besides, what did _he_ ever do for _us?_ ”

The angels holding them in place shook them both hard, gaining Imogen’s attention.

“Don’t do _what?_ ” She asked, narrowing her eyes. “It’s rude to leave your sentences unfinished, you know.”

Dean gave Sam his best _‘do it and I’ll kill you’_ stare, but Sam powered on anyway.

“Samael. We can tell you where to find Samael.”

Every person in the room froze, and every head turned to him. For a moment, Raphael completely forgot what he was supposed to be doing. Gabriel gave Sam a confused look that quickly turned to something sly.

Bobby gave Sam a careful glance, and Crowley turned with something foreign and harsh in his eyes.

“You’re lying.” Raphael accused, “You must be. Samael is long dead.”

“What, like Gabriel was? And Cassiel?” Sam huffed in something like amusement. “You’re kidding me, right? We managed to track him down not long before we found Gabriel. He didn’t want anything to do with us at first, but he was very powerful; and we remember where he lived.”

“Did you, now?” Crowley asked with a predatory glare in Sam’s direction. It was Bobby, eyes gleaming with a quiet understanding, who spoke next.

“And you’d be one to contradict ‘em?” he asked, fixing his knowing gaze on Crowley. “Why don’t you tell everyone here what _you_ know about Samael, _Fergus?_ ”

Crowley spun on Bobby, stunned and horrified, and Dean couldn’t resist making a comment.

“ _Fergus?_ Your name is _Fergus?_ Oh, that almost makes today a little bit better.”

Crowley looked for a second as if he planned on snapping Bobby’s neck, but refrained. It wouldn’t do to look guilty, now.

“What is this mud-monkey talking about, Crowley?” Raphael asked, stepping away from the wall. “What do you know of _my brother?”_

Crowley laughed smoothly, though his face was a touch too pale for anyone to be convinced. “You can’t honestly be falling for this, Raphael. _They’re trying to distract you_ ; to buy themselves time to pull a miracle out of their arses. That’s how they won the apocalypse, after all.”

Raphael stepped in front of Crowley, wings flaring out behind him. Sam blinked flashes of the Amazon and Madagascar’s baobab forests out of his eyes, and risked refocusing on Balthazar.

Both of his shoulders were slumped more than should’ve been possible, with how he was tied. He had stilled, his eyes fixed on the drama at the front of the room. Anna, however, was twitching suggestively, maneuvering her arms behind her back.

Sam caught Balthazar’s eyes, a silent question in them. Balthazar risked giving him the slightest nod, and gestured with his head towards Cas.

Cas, for his part, was mainly focused on staying awake. Blood pooled around his bowed from, dripping from his collarbone and rolling down the curves of his stomach. He quietly met Sam’s eyes from underneath his damp mop of midnight hair, and raised an eyebrow _. ‘What’s the plan?’_ he seemed to be asking.

Sam…honestly wished he had an answer. Bobby was calm, cool, and collected, all but for a bead of sweat rolling down his brow. Gabriel was still staring down at his chest, at the glowing red script. From his glare, you’d have thought it was mocking him.

“You’re lying to me,” Raphael accused. “Demons are not the only ones who can sense fear. _What do you know about Samael?”_

 _“Could we just focus?”_ Crowley insisted, façade cracking. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere! Once we’ve finished this, and there’s no chance of those blasted, denim-wrapped _nightmares_ tripping us up, then you can grill me all you want!”

Lightning struck the ground outside, visible through on window. Admittedly, Crowley thought, it wasn’t his most subtle deflect. _Damn that Bobby Singer to the Cage and back!_

As Sam watched carefully, Anna stopped moving. She stayed absolutely still for all of five seconds, then allowed her shoulders to slowly drop. She was free.

A slight gasp from the front of the room brought Sam’s attention snapping back. Meg had her eyes fixed on Anna. The demon looked away quickly, focusing her eyes on the floor. Neither Crowley nor Raphael noticed, too wrapped up in their staring contest, but one demon narrowed his eyes at Meg suspiciously.

Sam realized that whatever they planned on doing, they had to do it now. They wouldn’t get another chance like this. Taking a deep breath, Sam decided to press his luck.

He gently rolled his shoulders, testing the grip. The angel standing behind him was enraptured with the display, and now only had his hands gently resting on his shoulders. Sam felt around as subtly as he could, and found the angel’s angel blade in his left sleeve.

The demon who’d spotted Meg studied the room, taking everyone in. Sam and Dean shared a quick look, and Sam acted first.

“Well, we could solve that mystery for you,” Sam said, bringing the attention back to him. “You wouldn’t even need to chat up Crowley for it; but we do have one condition.”

“And what would that be?” Raphael asked skeptically.

 “We want to go free; me, Dean, Bobby, and Cas. Oh, and-” Sam glanced at the suspicious demon- “Whatever it is _he’s_ hiding behind his back. That looks useful.”

The funny thing about angels and demons was this: for all their immense power, resources, and intelligence, all it took to bring them down was the littlest hint of suspicion. After that, it was like watching a jenga tower collapse.

To Sam’s satisfaction, no less than three angels rushed forward, two taking an arm and one stabbing. The demon didn’t have a chance. In truth, he was completely unarmed; but the flicker of panic and paranoia was all that was needed.

Balthazar leaped suddenly, and took out the angel standing right behind him in a swift, graceful movement. The second angel quickly followed suit. Anna through herself backwards, bringing the angel behind her down hard. The second who’d been guarding her had flung himself at the demon; his mistake. As she wrestled her brother, Balthazar grabbed his former captor’s angel blade.

Raphael’s head snapped to the side, taking in what was going on. He moved to snap his fingers, but never had the chance. Castiel took a deep, sturdy breath, and lunged forward. He barely made a dent in the archangel’s stance, but Raphael was shocked enough to stumble back. Crowley glared at the ensuing chaos with an expression that could only be summed up as _‘I told you so!’._

Imogen roared, and threw herself at Balthazar, only to be knocked off course by Anna. Together, she and Balthazar managed to grab a wing each, and keep the huntress busy.

Sam and Dean managed to wrench themselves from their captors, and split up. Sam turned and threw a punch, pushing as much left-over psychic power behind it as he could, and dodging a grab as he did so. The angel actually felt the punch, thankfully, and was so surprised, Sam managed to disarm him. The only reason he managed that much was because of luck and the element of surprise.

With a swift, practiced motion, he stabbed, sinking the stolen blade into the angel’s abdomen. Dean’s angel tried to strike him, but froze as a blade-tip appeared through his neck. Dean gave him a quick nod, and bolted for Castiel.

Sam raced for Gabriel, knowing that even if he wasn’t on Raph’s level, he was still their best bet. One angel who stood guard swung at him, but missed. Sam slid into a perfect baseball slide, and managed to get to Gabriel.

One slice with his stolen blade, and the archangel was free. His wings flared out behind him, shimmering and bright, and the other angels in the room had the good sense to run. In a _whoosh_ of flapped feathers, the only angelic beings in the room were the captives, one now-unconscious Imogen, and Raphael.

Sam blinked hard to focus on something other than Gabriel’s wings – he did not need to be staring into open fields of wheat at the moment, no matter how pretty it looked.

Crowley’s demons lay dead at his feet. Bobby had flung himself into a corner, betting on staying out of the carnage. Meg had also attacked Imogen, helping to knock her out. She now straddled the angel’s body, while Anna used what had once been her chains to tie her up.

Balthazar was freeing Gadreel from his bindings, and once the angel was free, Balthazar gave him specific instructions. Gadreel nodded, and moved towards Meg and Anna. In a snap of the fingers and a flap of wings, the three angels and one demon vanished.  

Dean had grabbed Cas, and hauled him out of the way of Raphael’s wrath. Before either of them could be incinerated, Gabriel stepped between them, sword at the ready. And it was an actual sword, Sam noticed. A good three feet long and gleaming in the dull, florescent light.

“How could you do this?” Raphael hissed violently, “We’re _brothers,_ Gabriel.”

“That didn’t seem to bug you when _I_ was hog-tied,” Gabriel responded, “I had a lot of love for you, Raph; but you’ve gone too far.”

The two archangels moved at the same time. Raphael dodged a blow to his shoulder, and instead sunk his own sword deep into Gabriel’s chest.

Instead of looking to be in any pain, Gabriel smiled sadly. “Say hi to Dad for me.”

Raphael only had a moment to be confused, before the tip of a sword pierce his ribcage. He had just enough energy left to glance behind him, and see the real Gabriel standing there, His body now soaked with Raphael’s blood.

A beam of light lit up the room, and the archangel fell to the ground, dead.

Sam would later blame his lack of observation skills on the fact that there was a divine sibling spat happening right in front of him. He looked around for more threats, and found Crowley standing inconspicuously by the blood-soaked sigil on the wall.

Sam only had a moment to think _‘wait, why didn’t he run?’_ Before his stomach dropped to his feet. The spell. Crowley wasn’t-

“Sam!” Dean had tucked Cas next to Bobby, and armed them both before racing towards his brother. Then Sam’s world exploded into darkness.

 


	14. Save Rock 'n Roll!

_Drip; drip; drip..._

It was the feeling of icy water plopping gently onto his face that woke Dean up. His body felt thoroughly beaten, and the smell of fresh rain and ozone swarmed his senses.

His head was pounding in a way that suggested a concussion, and his body felt weak. It took him a while to get his bearings. He blinked his eyes open to a disaster-zone a good mile wide.

He lay on his back, on a cracked cement floor. For a few meters in every direction, the rubble of what once had been a building lay strewn about in a disorganized mess. Just beyond that, shoulder-height corn rocked on the powerful gale that accompanied the rain. Thick, black clouds hung heavy in the sky, rolling towards them in a tidal wave.

He groaned loudly, and was only able to get up so quickly due to his experience with hangovers. He just needed some water, some aspirin, and maybe a cold shower; then he’d be top-notch.

Lying just a few feet away was Sam. He was curled tightly into a fetal position, and managed to look painfully small for a guy who was six-foot-four.

“ _’ammy?_ ” Dean called out weakly, slurring his words. His vision wavered in and out of focus, making it nearly impossible to think straight. He coughed wetly, feeling like something was caught in his throat. His eyesight finally stilled long enough for him to see a few specs of blood-soaked saliva drip to the ground and mix with the rain water.

He tried to crawl to his hands and knees, but collapsed almost immediately. A horrid, wet, thumping beat in his chest, and made every breath feel like being exorcised. Thunder rolled in the distance.

“Dean? Hey, Dean-o!” A face appeared in his line of sight – short, dark-gold hair, hazel eyes, and an unfortunately nude chest.

“Ugh,” Dean whined, “That is _not_ what a guy wants to see first thing in the mornin’.”

“Well, you’re not exactly a vision _yourself_ , you obtuse, James Dean-wannabe.”

Even as he spoke, Gabriel put two fingers to Dean’s temple, and the pain in his body slowly pulsed away to a dull ache.

“There,” Gabriel said, shoulders sagging weakly, “Congratulations. You’re no longer dying. Now get your lazy ass off the ground and help me move some bodies.”

When Gabriel said ‘ _help him move bodies_ ’, he was not joking. The bodies of two former demon-hosts, five former angel-vessels, and one poor former archangel-vessel needed burying. Someone had built this house, and whoever it was had probably heard the giant explosion. They had to cover everything up.

Balthazar was weakly groaning to himself in the one still-semi-standing corner. With no roof, it didn’t protect him from the rain, but it kept him sitting up at least. Cas lay next to him, with his head in his lap. He wasn’t moving at all, and for a moment, horror washed over Dean’s body colder than any rain.

“Relax,” Gabriel said, sounding as old as he was. “We were all knocked for one hell of a sixer when Crowley finished that spell. Those of us who could stand wound up relatively okay; but Cas was already hurt before. I just put him in a minor coma so that his body could heal.”

Dean all but collapsed in relief. Cas was fine.

It took a moment for Gabriel’s other words to knock into a functioning part of his brain; but when they did-

“ _’Finished the spell?’_ Crowley let the leviathans out?”

“Yup,” Gabriel replied, no energy or exuberance in his voice. “Welcome to _‘Apocalypse 2: The Crappy Sequel None Of Us Wanted But Got Anyway!’_ Grab a beer and a couple of martinis, ‘cause we’re _not_ getting through this one-hundred percent sober.”

Gabriel set an unconscious Bobby next to Balthazar, minding Cas’s head. Dean shook himself from his petrified thoughts, and told himself to focus. Focus on getting Sam next to the others, so that he was at least semi-protected. Focus on putting one foot in front of the other. He could have his meltdown later.

Once they’d set their four less-than-able bodies in the corner, Dean was handed a miraculously-intact shovel, and told to start with the graves. Gabriel nabbed Dean’s jacket – thankfully, not the leather one – and set about helping the rain wash suspicious amounts of blood into the dirt.

Dean only happened to glance to the side as he was digging, watching a puddle of blood that could only have been Cas’s drain into the wet ground. As he stared, tiny, violet, bell-shaped flowers slowly bloomed in the places where his blood fell.

“They’re bellflowers,” Gabriel said, catching Dean’s thought process. “They’re symbolic of grief and mourning. They probably picked up on our favorite little cherub’s last thoughts and feelings. Now get back to work.”

Dean had half a mind to beat Gabriel over the head with his shovel, but alas, he simply didn’t have the energy. He sucked it up, and got back to digging.

It took an hour-and-a-half to bury all the bodies. They had no car, unfortunately, but Gabriel managed to ‘pop’ one out of thin air. Right afterwards, he dropped like a puppet with its strings cut, and muttered about _‘pretty, pretty eyeballs’_ while Dean loaded his comatose ass into the pick-up truck. 

Sam and Bobby went in next, followed by Balthazar, who thankfully only needed to be supported, and could walk on his own. By virtue of being conscious, he got the passenger seat.

Finally, Dean lifted Cas into his arms, marveling at how light he was. Jimmy Novak had not been a small man; and Cas was even less dainty. But nonetheless, Dean barely had to break a sweat to get him into the back.

After all of that, Dean was a mess. He didn’t even know what liquid was filling up his boots and soaking his socks; Blood, sweat, or rainwater.

It was only once they were a good half-hour down the road that all of the past week’s events caught up to him. They’d fought tooth-and-nail for the world; and at the very least, Raphael was now dead. But what had they even fixed?

The leviathans were free. Dean had read up on them somewhat while on the way to Bobby’s, and they were some scary sons of bitches. Not even the archangels all working together managed to wipe them out. In the end, it was the Big Guy Himself who had to step in and completely destroy them.

All they had accomplished – all the death, suffering, and trauma they’d gone through – and they’d just traded in one apocalypse for another.

Dean needed a drink.

…

**1 week later. Washington, DC.**

Sam stared at the giant Tyrannosaurus Rex in the center of the room with… well, not quite ‘awe’. He’d seen too much in his life to be awed by a skeleton. But definitely with appreciation and intrigue.

It was larger than he’d expected; on TV, it looked so much smaller. And it was only the beginning; there were still a ton of exhibits to explore! Sam honestly couldn’t wait.

And you know what? He needed this. A break, even just a short one, from the shitstorm of his life right now. Dean hadn’t argued too hard, surprisingly. Once their assorted angels were strong enough to walk around and dress themselves, they ‘borrowed’ some cars, and headed north.

It was probably a bad time. Even though they hadn’t reared their heads yet, the leviathans were going to be a problem. But they had earned themselves one – just _one_ – actual holiday.

Which is why Sam, standing in a thick jacket and his _‘I heart NOZ’_ baseball cap, stood staring at a dinosaur skeleton in the Natural History Museum; a place he’d always wanted to go.

Gabriel stood next to him, lollipop in his mouth and olive jacket tucked around his small frame. He was powered down, for the moment. Crowley’s spell had really knocked them, and judging from the other angels’ reaction to seeing Cas again, he didn’t want to risk going upstairs till he could hold his own.

Speaking of their favorite fallen _seraphim_ , Cas stood with Dean by the entrance, watching curiously at how the tired secretary handled their money. Meg stood just nearby, having opted to come with. She’d decided she wanted safety in numbers, and for her, that meant sticking around. Cas had enough of a soft spot for her that he’d vouched, and she’d been allowed to stay, though Dean was still pissy about it.

Fatima, the poor thing, had taken one look at them and all but bolted. She had a breakdown over what had happened to her, and decided to stay with Bobby. They offered to reintegrate her into her old life, but Gadreel had cut them off when they’d regrouped.

“Imogen is… sentimental with her vessels. She will find this girl again. She no longer _has_ a normal life.”

Gadreel had also opted to stay. He, Anna, and Meg had dodged the blast, though in the confusion of teleporting away, Imogen had escaped, leaving an all but catatonic Fatima behind.

Although Anna had also passed, Balthazar had come with. He constantly glanced at Cas, something guilty in his eyes, before looking away again quickly. Sam had cornered him and asked him what was up, but he’d just shaken his head, and said that it was nothing that couldn’t wait till the vacation was over.

It niggled at something in the back of Sam’s mind, but he couldn’t place it. And anyway, they didn’t drive all the way here just to reminisce. He had a museum to enjoy.

Sam hadn’t noticed Dean’s approach, and was a little startled by the voice right behind him.

“Bobby called. Said he let Fatima work in his veggie garden a bit, and that she’s calmed down a whole lot. Poor thing’s probably having a major existential crisis. Gadreel and Anna are cool, mostly. He’s also just finished warning everyone he could about what was going down. All we can do now is wait.”

Sam made a non-comital noise, eyes still locked on the skeleton. He turned to the archangel standing beside him.

“Hey, Gabe. D’you know what they looked like?”

“Who, the dinos?” He asked, glaring up at the creature. “Oh, yeah. Huge tempers, those ones. Most theories are right – what scales they did have were camouflaged to their environment; but if there’s one thing all the science-goers forget, it’s the _feathers_.” He gave a thoughtful suck on his green, apple-flavored lollipop. “It’s a pity; they had such beautiful plumage, too.”  

Sam huffed a laugh, and Dean shook his head in bemusement.

“Come on; let’s get going.”


	15. Light 'em Up!

Bobby carefully plucked a fresh vial of his blood from the shelf behind him, and poured the contents into an iron-cast bowl as he chanted. A small burst of smoke clouded the air for a moment, and when it cleared, Crowley stood in the center of a devil’s trap.

“Now Robert,” he said, voice low and threatening, “Haven’t we danced this dance before?”

He looked awful. Deep bags sat beneath his eyes, and there was a sickly pallor to his skin. He was still, as always, dressed impeccably; but his tie was loosely wrapped around his neck, and the smell of sulfur was stronger than it should’ve been.

“You look like shit,” Bobby said, giving him a simple once-over. He grabbed his glass of whiskey and took a small sip to settle the buzzing of nerves in his chest. He might have a lot of experience with dangerous creatures, but his self-preservation instincts were too good to let him take it in stride.

“Aren’t you charming,” Crowley crooned, voice a little tighter than normal. “As much as I love playing house with you Robert, I have a kingdom to run. So, if we could just jump to the end…”

A low, harsh growl came from only a few feet to Bobby’s left; but for the most part, it went ignored. Instead, Bobby chugged what remained of his whiskey, and stepped forward.

“I want my soul back,” he said, “And I want to keep my legs.”

“And I want a trustworthy, controllable court of advisors to help me run Hell. We all want a lot of things we’re not getting today.” Crowley moved to snap his fingers, but was interrupted by what Bobby pulled out from his desk.

A thick chain, at the end of which sat a glass vial the size of Bobby’s head. Enochian script wrapped around it in an almost 3-D spiral, glowing a faint blue. They looked identical to the chains that had been used to hold the angels in place, and that was because they were the very same.

From the inside of the vial, a bright, fiery light lit up the room. The scuff of claws on the wooden floor was enough for Bobby to know the hellhound had ducked behind Crowley, terrified at even the presence of angelic light. If he’d had any doubt about his suspicions, it was quickly eradicated by the look on Crowley’s face when Bobby brought out the vial.

“Where…” Crowley’s eyes couldn’t move from the item in Bobby’s steady grip. The look of nostalgia – of _longing_ – on his face was enough to make Bobby pause. It was such a human look; and at the same time, an expression he’d seen Gabriel wear sometimes.

“I bartered it off of Balthazar,” Bobby explained, “It was among the things he nabbed from Heaven as he bolted. I had to do all but swear him my newly-returned soul to get it, but when he heard it was to spit on your perfect record…” Bobby smiled. “He was surprisingly agreeable.”

Crowley’s face twisted into something vicious. He was trapped in the devil’s trap, and his dear Juliet was loyal, but not in the face of pure, undiluted holy energy. He was, for the moment, stuck. 

“How did you even figure that out?” Crowley asked. “Geniuses and psychics alike could never come close. How did _you-_ ” he gestured to Bobby; his ratty baseball-cap, beer-belly, and shitty whiskey. “-figure it out?”

“It wasn’t too hard,” Bobby said, “Just one or two loose ends that needed tying together. Honestly, if I hadn’t had to do so much research into archangels at the same time as I was digging up dirt on you, the connection never would’ve occurred to me.”

Crowley huffed.

“So, let me get this straight,” Bobby said, sitting down at his desk. “You used to be a human being named Fergus Roderick McCloud. You were born in 1661, in Scotland. You lived a normal-ish life, save for selling your soul, and when your years were up…” Bobby poured himself another glass, “You went to hell.”

“Now, it was pure coincidence that as I learnt this, Castiel managed to give me an exact date for the fall of Samael.” Bobby turned back to Crowley, playing with the vial. “ _1661_. And according to all the angels we asked, he landed somewhere in _Europe._ ”

Crowley mock-applauded, jaw tight and eyes burning with a desire to kill.

“Well done, Robert. You must be _so_ proud of yourself.”

“I have a proposition,” Bobby said, ignoring Crowley’s remark. “I’ll give you Samael’s – _your_ – grace. One piece of it, at least. In return, you give me my soul, you let me keep my legs; and you tell me how an archangel became the king of Hell.”

Crowley watched him coldly for a moment, before a sharp smirk settled on his face. “Well, you’ve gone and given me no choice, haven’t you Robert?”

Crowley whistled sharply, and Juliet scampered away in relief. She was no longer needed. Bobby brought the grace forward with him, setting it by their feet on his side of the trap.

With no forewarning, Bobby grabbed Crowley’s tie and yanked him forward into a kiss. Better to get this over with as soon as humanly possible. He mentally counted _one, two, three;_ then pulled away quickly.

Crowley’s businessman’s mask was firmly back in place. He’d remained limp in Bobby’s grip the entire time, a tad shocked, but pursed his lips in pleasure when it was over.

“My, my. If you keep that up, I might have to start handing out kisses for free.”

Bobby huffed as a burning feeling worked its way up his body. He rolled up his sleeves, watching the blood red, tattooed ink on his arms disappear. All of it faded into pale, white, scar tissue, barely visible against his skin; save for about five lines of Latin text around both wrists.  

“A pleasure, as always.” Crowley said, as Bobby scraped the fresh paint on his floor away. He reached for the grace, but Bobby caught his hand before he could grasp the cord.

“Uh-uh,” he said, “We had a deal. You promised me your sob-story.”

Crowley bit back a snarl. “Really, Robert, I didn’t think you were the Dr. Phil type.”

“Do I look like Dr. Phil to you?” he asked, bone dry.

“A little,” Crowley, ever the smartass, responded.

“And this isn’t about any therapeutic crap,” Bobby said. “More morbid curiosity. You’ve done the full circuit. Heaven, Earth, Hell; probably even a few other dimensions. I want to know why.”

Crowley ground his teeth, but relented. “Fine. I was one of D- of _God’s_ first. One of the seven. The first six of us came in pairs; first Michael and lucifer, then Gabriel and I, then Raphael and Raziel, then lastly, Cassiel. I always admired my older brothers, but Lucifer? He was my favorite. Actually, I’m pretty sure he was everyone’s favorite. But it didn’t last long…”

Crowley’s voice went almost a little sad. “The humans were made. You know how the story goes, I’m sure. Lucifer was cast out; that was around the time Dad went quiet. After a few years, most of us became disillusioned. Michael stayed true, and Raphael did whatever Michael said. But the rest of us? We were all just a little worried we’d be next.”

“So, you took the jump?” Bobby guessed. “You used becoming human to get away.”

“Yes,” Crowley admitted, doing a good job of acting exasperated. “Now may I leave? I have a traumatized hellhound to comfort.”

Bobby backed off, relinquishing the grace. Crowley wasted no time grabbing it, and vanishing in a puff of sulfur and brimstone.

Bobby scratched his beard thoughtfully, running his new information over in his head. He was certain he could use all of this somehow; but that was a problem for another day. As it is, he had an excuse to call his boys with good news.        


	16. Miss Missing You...

Hell was… well, Hellish. But what was Adam expecting?

The trip in was merciless. Adam couldn’t remember much through the haze of Michael’s grace; blue, and huge, and all-consuming. But he did recall the exact moment it all went to shit.

One second, Michael was calm, and collected, and doing exactly what he was told to do. The next? Pure, undiluted, unfiltered _panic._ Adam figured he was pretty lucky his soul survived.  

It felt like they were falling forever. Like they were dust bunnies that had been sucked into a vacuum cleaner. All too soon, and after far too long, he landed on something hard, stone, and that hurt like a bitch.

It was a cage, of some kind. And in the back of his mind, he remembered one or two of Michael’s thoughts circling around a cage. It was dark, but thankfully dry, and through the tight, crisscrossing bars, Adam saw nothing but void.

He crawled to his knees, sitting up with a struggle. For what the fall had felt like, he thought he should be dead; nothing more than a human stain on the ground. But it didn’t feel much worse than that time he’d fallen twelve feet out of a tree when he was nine, and broken a leg.

Somehow, he made it to one corner of the cage, tucking himself in and making himself as small as possible. By the time he’d plucked up the courage to look over his shoulder – to shift, and see what the rest of the Cage’s occupants were going through – a good hour or so had passed by.

They were… small. Before, Michael had been absolutely breath-taking. Like the eye of a hurricane; indescribably destructive, but currently, absolutely calm. Lucifer, despite his shrunken size, was still a bright, pinkish light, that nearly blinded him.

Now, though, Adam could feel the air around him shifting. The smell of ozone hit his nose, and knew, without a doubt, that he wouldn’t live through this.

Adam looked outside, wanting to turn his eyes elsewhere. It was silly, but a small part of him prayed that if he couldn’t see them, they wouldn’t see him.

It was the sound that made him turn back yet again. As the three of them watched, a tall wall seemed to build itself, the bars and bolts appearing from nothing. The wall appeared between Michael and Lucifer, cutting them off from each-other, and Adam wound up on Michael’s side.

That was the precise moment the aforementioned archangel snapped.

The ensuing explosion was like a nuclear bomb going off right in front of him. Faster than he could see – faster than he could _process_ – his world went from cold horror to excruciating pain. His eardrums blew, and in the back of his mind, Adam could feel the blood trail run down his neck. His eyes burned, oh how they _burned,_ and his world whited-out before going dark.

He could feel his body burn away. He wanted to puke from the pain, but he couldn’t. Just when he thought he couldn’t possibly be in any more agony, he was.

Then, as quickly as it started, it stopped. Adam was left dry heaving, nothing in his stomach but blood. Everything hurt, so badly he couldn’t even think straight.

Slowly, gently, the pain faded. A pinprick of light appeared in his vision, and spread to reveal Michael’s gentle blue grace. The first lungful of air he could suck in without choking felt like absolute _heaven._ It seemed to warm his body by ten degrees, and filled him with renewed energy.

“What was that?” he coughed, knowing the answer, but being cross-eyed enough to ask anyway.

“Me,” Michael responded. His grace seemed to take a more humanoid appearance as he spoke. His voice resounded off the walls of cage, ringing in Adam’s freshly-healed ears like a gong.

“I’m sorry; I panicked. I didn’t mean to…” he couldn’t seem to find the right words, and Adam interrupted before he could.

“What? Burn me alive? _Trap me in Hell? Go fuck yourself!”_

Stunned, Michael’s grace flinched backwards. He was shocked at the ferocity the boy had responded with; the sheer, unapologetic rage directed straight at him.

At that moment, he was offended. His pride-fullness was a flaw he really tried to work on, and that he admitted to having; but things weren’t _supposed_ to go so sideways. It was _not_ Michael’s fault they were here. He had never intended for this to happen!

Later on, however, he understood. Adam was scared. He was nineteen, trapped in hell, and terrified. Like any scared, injured animal, Adam lashed out at anything that came close

They spent the first week like that, shaking in their respective corners. Adam quickly discovered that he didn’t need sleep or food. He was left alone, mostly, by Michael. Lucifer would taunt through the bars sometimes, calling him weak, daring him to step a little closer; but Adam was never stupid enough to take the bait.

Sounds and sights were distorted and softened by the wall, which he was thankful for. He could hear the screams from that side, and he hoped Sam wasn’t trapped there with him. His brothers had been right, and he’d been wrong; but they’d come and saved him anyway.

Had things been different, Adam would’ve wanted to know them. He’d always wanted siblings, and he felt like they were good ones.   

After a time, Adam found he could walk around, and get the lay of the land, without too much trouble. He was yet to step near Michael; even boredom wasn’t enough for him to ignore his basic self-preservation instincts. Even so, the way he stayed in his corner, stock-still and dead-silent, unnerved him.

Adam managed to get within three feet of him once, and heard him whispering in a language Adam didn’t know. From the reverent, desperate tone he used, it sounded as if the archangel was _praying._

Adam had also wondered within five feet of Lucifer’s cage once, curious enough to peek in. He was nearly blinded. In the back of his mind, he remembered something he’d heard at Sunday school; something about Lucifer being the ‘brightest’ of the archangels. The _‘Morning Star’_. Adam thought that held true.

After two weeks, Adam had resorted to shaking the bars, picking at them, looking for weaknesses. He thought he heard Lucifer scoff once at the attempt, but he never tried to stop him. Eventually, Adam gave up on breaking the place open. Almost microscopic symbols and spell-work was laid into the foundation; it was impossible to get through.

A month of sheer nothingness was enough for Adam’s self-preservation to take a back seat to his curiosity. He stepped before Michael, blinking into his grace. To his surprise, he found himself seeing oceans – the deep marine blue of the open sea, the turquoise of the Caribbean, the white foam on the beach somewhere foreign. It was enough to knock him sideways. He was so distracted by the view, he completely forgot what he was going to say.

The very next day, he walked back up to the archangel, and decided to initiate conversation. It wasn’t that he wanted to talk to Michael – _ever_ – but his options were a little limited. Reminding himself not to get caught up in the sight, he began to speak.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and Michael’s quiet, steady chanting stopped.

“I shouldn’t have yelled at you the other day.” _After all,_ Adam thought sarcastically, _it isn’t like you were planning on breaking the world, or anything like that._   

A moment of silence passed between them, before Michael resumed his prayer as if Adam hadn’t spoken at all.

With a huff, Adam marched back to his corner of the cell. He knew when he wasn’t wanted around.

It took three days for Adam to become bored enough to try again. At the very least, Michael’s last response hadn’t been violent. Adam reached out to the swirling, twirling blue mist, curious, and the feeling that dripped on his hand was equal parts boiling and freezing. He quickly snatched his hand back.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” The sudden voice from the glowing abyss of Michael’s grace startled him. He wasn’t used to actually getting an answer.

“Well,” Adam said, “Wait. You’re not _still_ bitter about me yelling at you, are you? Because it anyone here has a right to be _bitter…_ ”

Michael gave off a sound that could’ve been an aggravated sigh. “What do you want?”

“I’m bored.” Adam said, deciding to be direct. “Is there a way out of here?”

“If there was,” Michael replied tartly, “I would’ve used it by now.”

Adam couldn’t resist an eye-roll. “I meant for me; for humans.”

The cage wasn’t built for people. Maybe there was some loophole he could exploit?

“Please,” Michael scoffed, “You were never meant to even be here. There is no way out.”

Adam hid his disappointment. From the other cage, another voice piped into their conversation. The blond pseudo-Winchester had gotten pretty good at recognizing the devil’s voice, unfortunately for him.

“Aw,” He piped up, drifting near the bars separating them. “Look, Mikey! It’s trying to _bond!”_

They both sent Lucifer almost-identical looks of annoyance. “Is there a way to shut him up?” Adam asked, not taking his eyes off of their peanut gallery.

“I only wish.” Michael responded, voice weary at his brother’s antics in a way that made Adam think of Dean. Speaking of his brothers…

“I have a question.” Adam said, looking back to his archangel roommate. Michael made a good show of wanting to be anywhere but there. How he managed to convey such emotion as a barely-corporeal wavelength of celestial intent, Adam could only guess.

“What is it?”

“Why did we – meaning Dean, Sam, and I – wind up on ‘ _Angels Most Wanted’_? Why are _we_ special?”

Michael sighed deeply. “It’s a bloodline. Your father’s bloodline. John Winchester is the last direct descendent of the brothers Cain and Abel. You and your brothers are the only ones who could contain an archangel without immediately busting into flames and being eradicated, _body and soul_ , from existence.”

Michael let that hang in the air for a moment, before asking: “Is there anything else you want to know?”

Adam quietly returned to his corner.

“That’s what I thought.”

…

Adam remembered hearing, in the jumble of Michael’s brain, that a month on Earth was a decade in Hell. He hoped that wasn’t true. Still, there was nothing for him to do in the Cage but bang his head against the bars and wait to die. And that didn’t sit well with him at all.

Still, far slower than he would’ve liked, two months rolled by. He didn’t need to eat, sleep, bathe, or groom himself. There was literally _nothing_ for him to do but _think_.

He’d taken to bugging Michael. Even if the archangel lashed out, at least it would be a reprieve from the boredom.

He would ask a question, and wait patiently for an answer. Michael would eventually give in, and talk to him about whatever subject had come up. By the third month, Michael had stopped arguing, and simply answered when asked.

By the six-month marker, Michael was even initiating some of their conversations, and he had no shortage of stories to tell to keep them busy. Adam had introduced him to poker, which Michael obviously excelled at. If they escaped, Adam made a mental note to take him to a casino.  

Sooner than he would’ve liked, a year passed. Michael’s tales of times long gone were the only things keeping him sane, and as the time went by, he got the distinct impression that he did the same for his celestial roomie. He prayed less and less, and seemed to give up hope on divine intervention saving him from being trapped in a room with his brother for eternity.

As the years ran by, they got closer. Lucifer would tease from behind his bars, but both he and Michael had tried to break the barrier down; neither could. The most dangerous thing about the devil right now was his _unbearable_ personality. Despite that, the brothers had somewhat made peace. Michael finally knew how Lucifer felt, and Lucifer had enough pity on Michael to take it easy on him.

Adam also learned that Sam wasn’t with Lucifer, thankfully. The sounds of torture he heard at times came from nameless demons, attacking each-other in their pain above the Cage.

Yet another year passed, and Adam moved permanently into Michael’s corner. Why not? He already spent most of his time there, anyway. And when Michael was close, the sounds of Hell – of pain and suffering – faded. On top of that, Michael’s swirling grace reflected the oceans of the world. It was like looking through a window into Earth.

Adam thought that, when and if he got out of this place, he might trade his major in medicine for a major in marine biology. He wanted to make the world a better place, which was why he’d wanted to be a doctor; but he loved animals, too. And the visions of them he saw in Michael’s wings were persuasive enough.

Maybe he could save sea animals for a living. Get a job at a water park, or a zoo. Or maybe he could learn how to sail, and spend his life out on the wide, blue expanse.   

It was the sound of thunder from above them that caused all three occupants of the Cage to glance up. Adam thought it might be a fluke; a one-time thing. Or, perhaps, he had finally lost his mind. He’d been waiting on _that_ for some time now. But then it struck again, closer.

“What is that?” Adam asked. For once, Michael had no answer for him.

A crack appeared in the ceiling. They stared at it, none of them willing to hope about what it meant. A second later, another crack appeared. Then another, right above their heads.

A single drop of something black landed on Adam’s forehead. A second, smaller drop followed it, and he blinked rapidly. Lucifer was right up against the bars, staring intently, and Michael leaned in close to analyze it.

Suddenly, something in Lucifer’s face flickered. He seemed to dim, almost like he was trying to hide.

“Michael,” He asked, voice quiet. “Is that what I think it is?”

“No,” Michael said, slipping right into Adam’s personal bubble to look closer at the drops. “It can’t be. No-one would be stupid enough to…”

Around them, more droplets hit the ground. Adam felt nothing; they seemed like blood to him. But to the archangels, they burned.

“Who would do this?” Lucifer asked. “This is madness! Even for _me!_ ”

“Do what?” Adam asked. Despite how he knew the grace could burn, he stepped closer to Michael.

Michael seemed to wrap around him in return. “Someone’s let them loose. But who would know how?”

“It had to be an archangel,” Lucifer said, his blink-and-you’ll-miss-it grace burning with stars. “No-one else knows the spell.”

Both he and Lucifer pondered this, thinking back; to Gabriel’s harmless pranks, Samael’s crass humor, Raphael’s sense of-

“Raphael.” Michael said, “ _He_ must’ve done this.”

“Done what?” Adam asked, growing frustrated. “Who’s done _what?_ ”

“The leviathans.” Michael said, “They’re loose.”      

**The End…**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that, my friends, is this part of the story done! This has been a really informative experience - not just plot, character development, and story format, but also in how long I can type before either my brother hits me with a pillow and tells me to stop, or my hands go into cramp.
> 
> The sequel will depend heavily on how much attention this gets. I love writing for Supernatural, but I like screaming into an empty void a little less. Now, if you'll excuse me, Star Wars: Rebels Season 4 just came out, and I have sobbing to do.
> 
> *Now with Cover Art by Pipparachi on Deviantart (https://pipparachi.deviantart.com/art/A-Different-Path-Chosen-717047955)


	17. Notification

Hey guys! Just letting you all know that this fic now has a sequel! I'll be uploading as often as possible, and I hope you enjoy.


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